


More Grace than Heaven, More Spite than Hell

by berrymascarpone



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anakin isn’t the chosen one, Attempt at Humor, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Good Omens AU, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22531711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrymascarpone/pseuds/berrymascarpone
Summary: Anakin is a Sith who didn’t so much Fall as unwisely follow the suspicious dark-hooded stranger into the windowless black space shuttle. Obi-Wan is a Jedi who just wants to collect old texts and artifacts and not worry about the eternal war between light and dark. But the prophecy of the Chosen One is about to come to fruition, and the ancient orders of Jedi and Sith are preparing by sending out their most valiant (expendable) warriors to skew the balance of the Force in their favor. However, the galaxy is a large place, and the two enemies find that they might have more in common than they realized.aka the Good Omens AU that no one asked for.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 115
Kudos: 396





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten into another fandom, yay! And this fic has been gnawing at my brain ever since. So yeah, enjoy.
> 
> It's an AU where the Jedi and Sith are both reclusive orders (cults), hiding out in their respective temples after the last Sith/Jedi war, training and preparing for the final battle. They have really long lives, because the Force works in mysterious ways. Also, I know nothing about the history of the Star Wars Universe except what I look up on Wookiepedia, so if you see a mistake it's just part of the AU

It is said that the battle between the Dark and the Light has raged for as long as the Force has been around. Jedi fall and Sith rise, schisms form and heal, but the battle is always there. Always balanced.

===

_Moraband, 15 years before the Chosen One_

“You want me to do _what_?” Anakin said.

On his obsidian throne that had once been majestic before the ceiling tile fell on it and snapped off an arm and half the back, Lord Sidious hissed his displeasure at being interrupted. Anakin quickly lowered his gaze to the third century Shaak-skin carpet slowly rotting away to a brown fuzz on the throne room floor. Half the furnishings in the temple on Moraband were from some dark and moldy closet last opened during the last Jedi Wars, before the Sith and Jedi went into hiding to lick their respective wounds. When Anakin followed Sidious back to the temple, lured by promises of broken chains, victory, and power enough that nothing could ever hurt him, he had expected the anger, the brutal training, the barren wastelands filled with hungry monsters—it was, after all, an Order dedicated to the Dark side of the Force. But he hadn’t expected the mildew. Anakin was tired of the smell of mildew.

“Go forth and bring Darkness to the Force, my apprentice,” Sidious said, imperious as always. He steepled his fingers before him and leaned forward, in the time-honored tradition of all Sith Lords, “The time of prophecy is near. We must sway its balance in our favor, so that when the hour of our final battle against the Jedi scum comes, we are prepared. It is a chance to prove yourself, Vader.”

Anakin suppressed a sigh. Of course it was about the prophecy. Sidious had been harping on the prophecy for at least the last fifty years or so, in a way that bordered on obsession. Some ancient Seer’s words about Chosen Ones and bringing balance to the Force. Which Sidious was convinced meant the rise of the Dark Side after so many centuries of Jedi tyranny. Anakin was sure that when the old bastard finally kicked it, they’d find copies of the prophecy hand painted on his walls and under his bed, in his own blood if they were particularly unlucky.

“Bring darkness to the Force,” Anakin said, “Of course, Master. I could start a bar fight or two. Destabilize a government. Drop-kick some babies?”

“Impertinent brat,” another voice said from the shadows behind the throne. Anakin scowled, recognizing Tyranus’ voice. The oldest if not first of Sidious’ minions, Tyranus had the dubious honor of once having been a Jedi before Falling, something about seeing the corruption and stagnation in the rotting core of the Jedi ranks (and Anakin really wanted to know what he thought about the rotting core of the Sith temple infrastructure), instead of waking up to find himself shanghai’ed into the Sith galley, like most of the rest of them. He slid out of the shadows now, standing with his arms crossed and looking down at Anakin like he was staining the carpet just by being on it. Which was insulting, because Anakin was sure the carpet was staining him.

“Maybe if you gave me a mission with actual parameters, I could have more to work with.” He said through gritted teeth.

“I am sure you can find some initiative,” Tyranus said, “unless you need someone to lead you by the hand like a lost child?”

Anakin growled, low in his chest, a terrible habit he picked up from Maul that didn’t work as well on his own pale, unremarkable face full of flat, human teeth. He knew he was being baited, and tamped down on the anger roiling in his stomach, fist clenching hard enough that the metal creaked in his prosthetic.

Sidious sat back, yellow eyes alert with amusement. He usually didn’t deign to interfere in petty posturing or even infighting amongst his minions, but encouraged it, and watched it with that same look of faint amusement as a child observing two ant colonies tearing each others limbs off. It cultivated hatred, he’d said more than once. More like cultivated pompous assholes like Tyranus.

“I can do it,” Anakin spat. There wasn’t anything else he could say, unless he wanted to fight Tyranus right here, in front of the Sith throne, a fight he wasn’t sure he’d win, and even his fury wasn’t quite enough to override the searing fear of losing a hand the last time he’d tried his luck.

“Excellent,” Sidious hissed, “We shall await your progress.” his eyes seemed to glow in the dim lighting.

“Of course, Master,” Anakin said, looking back down, “As you wish.”

But now that his order was issued, Sidious’ attention was already elsewhere, probably considering how the Prophecy would look painted on a mural on the walls of his throne room. “You are dismissed then, apprentice,” he said, with a wave of his gnarled hand.

“Don’t disappoint,” Tyranus added, with a smirk that sent Anakin’s teeth grinding again.

“Your face is disappointing,” Anakin muttered under his breath as he stalked out of the room before Tyranus could make his displeasure known.

===

In the privacy of his own room (he’d checked for surveillance devices that morning, you could never be too sure in the Sith temple), Anakin let his anger loose. The half-assembled droid he’d been working on slammed into the door in a display of frustration, crumpling its already dented chassis, and the tools and bolts on his workbench scattered like shrapnel. The door rattled, as if there were one of the terrible storms of wind and lightning that ravaged Moraband’s surface on the other side. He shouted, a wordless sound of fury that Asajj had once compared to a varactyl shriek, and slammed his metal fist against the wall, cracking the stone surface.

He couldn’t _believe_ Sidious was—was sending him away with such a flimsy excuse. It was just another form of exile, and he would be doomed to wander the galaxy on some useless task until Sidious deemed it fit for him to return. He’d done one too many stupid things, challenged Tyranus to one too many useless duels, reprogrammed one too many droids, made one too many baiting comments, and this was his punishment.

As much as he wanted to never see Tyranus or Sidious again, his chest seized up at the thought of leaving, in a way that no amount of tearing the room apart with the Force would unclench. It would just be Maul, Savage, and Asajj left, and they’d be forced to fight each other in the Pit, and what had happened with Feral would happen again, and—the wood of his door split, a long crack down its length. Third door that week. He scowled and threw a droid part at it, which bounced off harmlessly, forcing him to duck down or be brained in the head.

It wasn’t like he _cared_ , he told himself, letting gravity fold him into in a sad pile on the floor, just that—it was all just one big game to Sidious, and they were pawns on the chessboard, throwing themselves left and right at his whim. _Through victory, my chains are broken._ Ha, if only he could actually win for once.

His flesh-and-blood fist clenched too, hard enough to press the pale crescents of his nails into his palm.

“Pathetic.” Anakin’s head snapped up at the voice. Asajj Ventress leaned against his battered doorframe, arms crossed in front of her chest in a casual lounge.

“Asajj,” he said flatly, “How nice of you to visit.”

“Though I’d take one more look at your idiotic face before you get kicked off the planet.”

“Ha ha.” He let his head drop back down to the stone floor. Of course she’d heard, she’d probably been hiding just outside shielding like crazy, or sent some Force-controlled familiar to eavesdrop. He had his own share of spy droids crawling around in the throne room, blending in with the other skittering bugs that infested the place. Really, they needed some deep cleaning around here.

“It will be a relief once you’re gone.” She drawled, “we’re already planning the party.”

“What?” he did not feel hurt. The stabbing pain was just a cramp from clenching too hard. And sure, they’d all fought each other, willingly and not, and patched each other up afterward, but that didn’t mean they wanted him around. Or that he wanted to stay for them. When he looked up again, she was staring at him with that piercing sulfuric gaze of hers, lips thinned in a way that she did when he was being extra stupid.

“If you stay,” she said, slowly, looking like every word pained her, “You’re going to challenge Tyranus again, and lose more than just a hand.”

Anakin scowled. Yes he’d lost a hand but he’d made a _better_ one. His old hand couldn’t crush durasteel bars with grip strength alone, and he’d found that the metal was an excellent conductor of lightning, even if it fried most of the circuits.

“Or you’ll annoy Maul enough with your constipated guilty face that he’ll try his luck again,” Asajj added. Anakin winced. Things had been…awkward with Maul since the Incident, which, ok he understood why Maul would be annoyed at Anakin for cutting off his legs in moment of rage, but Anakin had built him _better_ ones. Legs that made him taller. Maul really should be thankful.

“Whatever,” he blew a curl of displaced hair from his face, “I won’t miss you losers anyways.”

Asajj rolled her eyes, “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Anakin was silent for a moment, considering. He’d be away from Tyranus’ sniping (both verbal and literal), Sidious’ calculating gaze, and Maul’s ever-increasing moodiness. And the mildew. And Savage’s shyrack stew, which seems to be the only thing available in the commissary these days. It was a Dathomirian recipe (Anakin was eighty percent sure it was Savage’s way of getting back at him for the Incident with Maul), and the only edible things on Moraband were shyracks and ashy scrub-grass. Shyrack stew had also not been in the Sith welcoming brochure. So perhaps getting some time away was not the worst thing that could happen. He said as much, and Asajj just stared at him flatly.

By the time Asajj left (groaning that he looked way too happy, and no she wasn’t going to stay for him to thank her or she’d probably throw up) Anakin felt something that might even be excitement. It was a wide galaxy out there, and there was chaos to be seeded, people to tempt to the Dark Side. And the food was probably much better.

===

He didn’t know why he choose Tatooine as his first stop, but he found himself piloting there, following the thin string of memory and Force-honed instinct. Perhaps his body still held the memory of twin suns on his back, of a mother’s smile now decades gone, of an echo of a child’s voice. _I’ll come back and free all the slaves, I promise_. But his heart had always been a selfish, feral thing, clutching at memories and hope that should be buried by time and other, fresher hurts.

The city of Mos Eisley sprawled out across the dunes like scattered droid pieces crushed under foot. He remembered a city like this, in the fog of his own distant past: slaves toiling in the sun, while masters walked in the shade, a kind mother struck down by a harsh hand. It stirred his anger to the surface, and he held on to it, stoked it gently. It was, he decided, a wretched hive of scum and villainy, and absolutely perfect.

He let his feet lead, weaving through unfamiliar streets that split into a web of side streets and alleyways, each turn leading to another into ever smaller holes and hovels, where slaves lived like rats in their nests. The heady scent of spices, the crack of whips, and junk vendors’ shouts filled the air, and the taste of corruption bloomed cloying on his tongue. It was a city ripe with potential Darkness, and he could already feel the Force swirling with discontent and fear. Just a planted suggestion here, a few fists there, and the whole pot would boil over into beautiful chaos.

His footsteps faltered. There was something in the air, an absolutely beautiful smell, beckoning him to come closer, and it was coming from right over—there. He stared at the cantina that was teeming with drunken bodies the way the puddles on Moraband teemed with little wriggling worms. He shrugged and pushed aside the ragged fabric that served as a door, stepping inside. The aroma was stronger inside, and absolutely beautiful—the scent of roasting meat and spices. He surreptitiously wiped the drool from his mouth.

He found a table (not empty, but that was quickly remedied with shove to the original occupant) and ordered a double of their daily special. The daily special turned out to be grilled womp rat, but the skin was crispy and coated in spices that numbed his tongue and filled his mouth with saliva, and the meat didn’t even have a taste of ash or shyrack musk, so he relished it like he hasn’t eaten in years. Which, if you didn’t count Savage’s cooking as real food (he didn’t), might even be true.

He was so caught up in the culinary explosion happening in his mouth that he didn’t even think about his mission to sow chaos and destruction until a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and a voice like the creak of a sewer grate said, “This is my spot.”

Anakin looked up slowly from his food to see a mountain of a Kiffar glaring at him through narrowed eyes. The Kiffar had two blasters on full display, one strapped to each leg, and a quick probe of the Force revealed three vibroblades hidden on various parts of his body. The man loomed over him, as if he could use his mass to squeeze Anakin out of his seat. “If you like your teeth, I suggest you move.” He ground out.

But Anakin was only half finished with the womp rat, and he was not about to get grease on his lightsaber, so he swung around, one arm slung on the table and said, “You don’t want this seat.”

The Kiffar frowned, and opened his mouth to say “What are--” just as Anakin reaches for the Force and twists. The man’s eyes glazed over.

“I don’t want this seat,” he said.

Anakin’s mouth curled into a smirk, “That’s right. In fact,” he scanned the cantina like a rancor sizing up its next kill, trying to decide which command would cause the most chaos, and points towards a group of rough-looking sentients playing (and cheating at) sabacc, “You want to go start a fight with those guys.”

“I want to go start a fight with those guys.” the man repeated, dully, and turned away from Anakin. The Force tasted like dark anticipation, and Anakin watched eagerly. He’d always enjoyed a show with his dinner.

“You don’t want to pick a fight,” another voice spoke up, crisply accented and just firm enough to be authoritative without being overbearing. A hand reached out to touch the man’s forehead, stopping him from moving any closer. The touch was not forceful, but the man halted like he hit a duracrete wall.

“I don’t want to pick a fight,” the man said obligingly, though there was a slight furrow in his brow, as if he was beginning to wonder why his thoughts were bouncing back and forth like a hyperactive sand-flea.

“That’s right,” the voice said, soothing, “You want to go home and enjoy a nice, quiet evening.”

“I want to go home and enjoy a nice, quiet evening.” The man said, his frown smoothing out into a firm nod, as if he’d made an executive decision himself instead of having the idea thrust upon him. His eyes were still glazed, but he pivoted again, turning towards the door of the cantina, and strode out.

Anakin pouted. He’d been looking forward to the fight, and it might have (with a few precisely timed punches) spilled over into the streets, drawing the city guard for a proper riot. But the disappointment didn’t last. There was something much more interesting standing in front of him, radiating disapproval and shining with so much Light in the Force that Anakin almost squinted with his flesh-and-blood eyes.

A man stood with his arms crossed, shorter than him with copper hair, a neatly combed beard, and blue eyes flashing with righteous anger. There was a mole underneath his right eye, Anakin noticed, and immediately filed away as an interesting but irrelevant detail.

“You’re the Sith?” the Jedi did not sound impressed. Anakin was impressed that his presence had been noted so soon, but he bristled at the tone. He was a very powerful Sith, attested to by the various matches he’s won against Maul and Savage and Asajj, and that one time he managed to singe Tyranus’ fancy beard. Great feats of Sithly ability which, he realized suddenly, weren’t actually publicly known outside the Sith temple. Force damn it.

“Darth Vader,” Anakin gave a mocking half-bow without leaving his seat, “What’s a Jedi doing on this dustball planet? Got tired of your fancy temple?”

Jedi was a hated word on Moraband, spoken (mostly by Sidious) with a hiss of hatred deeper than the gravity well of a black hole, but Anakin had never thought much about them, beyond the fact that they were the expected Final Battle that Sidious kept ranting on about. And now that he’d had a closer look, he was a bit disappointed. The man looked more like a dowdy librarian than a fierce warrior of the Light. His brown robe was barely more than a rucksack with the hood pulled back, and underneath the tan tunics were approximately the color and shape of the sand dunes outside the city limits. No Sith would be caught dead in such terrible clothes, except perhaps Sidious, who probably wore the same tattered cloak he’d had since the Jedi Wars. But perhaps there was more to power than impeccable fashion sense. He wondered how the Jedi would fare in a fight. There was a lightsaber hanging off his belt, yes, but that was no guarantee of martial ability.

“Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the Jedi said, with a polite smile, “I would say delighted to make your acquaintance, but I’ve been taught that it’s rude to lie. I’m here to stop you.”

And oh, wasn’t that interesting. Anakin was raring for a fight, ready to lock blades with a new opponent, and crush him like a worm underfoot. But instead of drawing his lightsaber immediately, he held himself back. All fights had to have some foreplay to make them really interesting, and riling up his opponent to the point of frothing was Anakin’s specialty. He leaned back against the cantina table, lazy as a krayt dragon in the midday sun. The movement knocked his elbow into the plate of grilled womp rat, and he had to scramble to catch the skewer before it fell to the ground.

“Stop me from eating my dinner?” Anakin asked with a raised eyebrow, and, since it was already in his hand, he took a large bite of the womp rat. He relished it almost as much as the look of disgust on the Jedi’s face.

“From seeding Darkness in the Force,” the Jedi said, trying to give his best impression of a disapproving parent, “and, apparently, committing grievous crimes against decorum.”

“Oh yes,” Anakin spoke with his mouth full, and the Jedi’s frown deepened, “Sowing chaos, destruction, despair and lack of manners. That’s what we Sith do best.” he swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The Jedi winced.

Anakin’s skin itched, with anticipation or the beginnings of sand rash. He wanted to push, see just how far he could test the Jedi’s patience. It was, he told himself, nothing at all like the thrill of annoying Asajj or Maul into a spar, back in the days when sparring was a fun thing between them, instead of a rage-filled fight to the death. He was sure he could take this Jedi, but he hoped the other man would at least make it fun. He felt his mouth break into a smug grin, all teeth and no kindness.

“Really? You aren’t going to let me finish this first?” he waved the womp-rat, around, grin widening as the Jedi leaned back, trying to avoid the flying grease. He never was one to play by the rules.

And now, the Jedi would become enraged, and start waving around his own puny lightsaber and attack in righteous anger, and Anakin would--

“Oh, I apologize,” the Jedi said, taking the seat next to him, “finish your meal. It would be such a shame to let it go to waste.”

“You--” Anakin frowned, feeling his anticipation evaporate faster than a splash of water on the Tatooine sands. His taunts had always worked before. Perhaps this Jedi had a bit of a defective fighting instinct, one that he would be sorely missing once Anakin skewered him through the kidneys. He looked down at his meal, and hesitated. The grilled womp-rat was excellent, the first real food he’d had in ages, and there was still half a womp-rat left. He decided that the balance of the Force could wait just a few more minutes.

“A cup of tea, if you please,” the Jedi turned away from him (showing his back! Was he suicidal or just stupid?) and waved to the Toydarian behind the counter. Anakin was sure there was no tea on the menu, but the proprietor snorted and turned around. Moments later, he slid a mug across the counter, and it sloshed just slightly as the Jedi caught it. Not a single drop splashed over the rim. The Jedi lifted the tea to his mouth and took a sip, then grimaced, and slowly placed the mug back down.

“Ah, do you have condiments for this? Some blue milk or sugar, perhaps?”

The Toydarian stared at him flatly, and turned away without a word. The Jedi sighed.

“Well then,” he looked back up at Anakin, face guileless in a way that made Anakin simultaneously want to punch him and laugh uncontrollably until he puked, “Call me when you’re ready to start.”

===

Later, when the slave uprising ran rampant through the streets of Mos Eisley, and the fires of Jabba’s burning palace and pleasure gardens lit the sky a dusky red, even in the Tatooine night, Anakin reveled in the smell of blasterfire ozone and blood wafting in the air, the screams of slaves and masters alike breaking the silence of the night. He sat exhausted on the top of the city wall, feet dangling over the edge, and savored the Force roiling like a sandstorm at its peak, chaos rising like black smoke over the city. Inciting violence and rebellion was quite the workout.

Beside him, the Jedi—Kenobi—groaned, leaning heavily against the battlement. Anakin had lost sight of him during the chaos, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the Jedi had been doing something good, like sheltering children or saving lost tookas. He looked almost as tired as Anakin felt, but his gaze was directed out towards the desert, where the long line of refugees stretched past the horizon.

“What was that about stopping my nefarious plans?” Anakin said, smug, “The city is burning, the slaves are rioting, and they won’t stop until the last master is dead.” It felt like a vindication, and his blood still sang with victory. He’d cut down the Hutt himself, when the riots reached the palace gates; no need to leave the best prey for the mob. “I would say that’s a victory for the Dark Side.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Kenobi said, folding his hands together underneath sleeves of the drab Jedi robe, “The economy may take decades to recover, but whatever rises from its ashes will be a fairer and more prosperous society, not rooted in the misery of slaves. The Force will be Lighter in the end.”

When Anakin looked over, he saw that Kenobi has the audacity to wear a smug smile of his own. He scowled, “The Jedi are not above destruction for the sake of their Light Side? How hypocritical.”

Kenobi gave a one-shouldered shrug, “And the Sith, it appears, are not above compassion if they go around freeing slaves.”

Anakin scoffed, and turned his head away, with the sudden anxious at the feeling that he had just given his opponent the very card he needed for a winning sabacc hand, and the even more concerning thought that he didn’t regret it. He pushed down that feeling with anger at the stupid Jedi with his stupid face and his stupid smile. Yes, anger was safe, the ever-faithful companion to the Dark Side.

“Next time,” he said, through gritted teeth, “I’ll show you what a Sith can really do.”

There was something almost like amusement when Kenobi said, “I look forward to it, then.”

===

Something nagged at him, and he looked the Jedi over. Same sand-colored robes, same disapproving expression.

“Hey,” he said, “didn’t you used to have a lightsaber?”

Kenobi’s expression did not change, but his ears turned red much faster than could be explained by sunburn.

“No,” he said, curtly.

“You did!” Anakin pointed at him accusingly, “It was blue and glowing and everything!” Anakin had been looking forward to pitting his own red ‘saber against it.

If anything, the flush of red spread to Kenobi’s face, and he sighed. “Oh, well if you must know, I gave it away.”

Anakin’s mouth dropped open. “Gave it away?” He could more easily imagine giving way his own left hand.

Kenobi looked over, towards the refugees, former slaves and poor free citizens, fleeing into the desert to escape the madness of the city. He looked concerned, mouth tugged down at the corners, “I figured they’d need it more,” he said, with a helpless shrug, as if it were a rule of the universe that he had to give up his things to those who need it more. Knowing the Jedi, it was probably some kind of rule.

Anakin scoffed, though there was something warm in his chest that not anger, hatred or despair and therefore probably inconsequential. “Typical Jedi,” he said. He flipped something out of his pocket and threw it in the Jedi’s direction.

Kenobi blinked, and caught the vibroblade before it could bury itself in his forehead. He frowned, “And here I thought we were past the point of trying to kill each other so inelegantly.”

Anakin rolled his eyes, “If you’re going to be wandering the galaxy with such a bleeding heart, you’d better be able to stop someone from making that more literal.”

A complicated look passed over Kenobi’s face as he pocketed the knife. Suspicion, confusion and perhaps some emotion that bordered on grateful? Anakin discarded the thought. What did he care if the Jedi thought he was being nice? He just didn’t want to miss out on a good future fight.

“My thanks for the weapon,” Kenobi said, “though I should have another ‘saber in a few rotations. Just as soon as I out Form 934-C for requisition of lightsaber parts.”


	2. First Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan's POV this time, and a trip to Mandalore.

The Jedi temple on Ahch-To was beautiful, in most conventional senses of the word: all glorious white stone polished to a lustrous shine, tall turrets standing proud against the ocean winds, and flowering vines curling across the walls in meandering bursts of color. The Force, suffused with Light, blanketed everything like a fresh morning’s dew. The temple had stood since before the Sith War, and signified everything a Jedi stands for: order, justice, and compassion.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was a good Jedi. He followed the Code, and respected his elders, and filled out Requisition Form 3706-B properly when he requested ancient Jedi texts on obscure philosophy from the Archives, even if the frankly obscene number of boxes to fill gave him tension headaches. He cared for the younglings, and bowed politely to the other Knights and Masters when he passed by them in the halls. He liked being a Jedi, and never once thought about throwing it all out like Master Qui-Gon to run off and join a Whills temple, where there was not so much paperwork. That was why he smiled at Yoda, even though the little green troll had just uttered the words that would shatter his plans of a nice, quiet existence reading through ancient texts and drinking tea.

“Excuse me?” he asked politely.

“Dire news, we have received.” Yoda said serenely. Obi-Wan noted with a distracted interest that the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order was old enough to still speak in the grammatical structure of the Old Republic. How fascinating.

“An agent of the Dark, the Sith have sent out. Sow chaos and Darkness, he will.” Yoda continued.

“That’s terrible,” Obi-Wan said, trying to sound concerned enough but not _too_ concerned, lest his concern be mistaken for initiative, “However, a single agent can’t possibly upset the whole order of the galaxy.”

“Powerful, the Sith is. Draws near, the time of prophecy,” Yoda said, “On the world, the Chosen one will descend. Stop this Sith agent, we must, lest the balance against us be turned.”

“Are you sure of this?” Obi-Wan said, a jolt of alarm passing through him. The Prophecy (the only one famous enough to require the capitalization) was very vague on the timing, preferring to spend most of its wording on the Chosen One and bringing balance to the Force. He assumed, of course, that this meant leading the Jedi to victory against their age-old enemies, the Sith. He couldn’t possibly imagine what the prophecy has to do with him, beyond the fact that he should be prepared for the eventuality of putting down his books and taking up his lightsaber against the enemy.

Yoda snorted, in the way that he did when younglings were being purposefully obtuse. Obi-Wan’s smile stretched, the way that creaking leather did on old book spines that were stressed from too much use.

“Stop him you will.” He said, “Bring Light to the force, you will.”

“You can’t mean—I am hardly the best choice for this!” Obi-Wan protested, “Surely there are better choices than me. More experienced Jedi, or stronger fighters.”

“Wills it, the Force does,” Yoda said. Obi-Wan scowled. That was the excuse that Qui-Gon had used to justify his most ridiculous stunts, and he wasn’t surprised to find it was the trait higher up in his lineage. Yoda’s gimer stick was paused threateningly in mid-air. “An excellent diplomat, you are. Experience outside the temple, you have.” The Grandmaster added.

“You’re not expecting me to _negotiate_ the Sith into submission, are you?” Obi-Wan said, his stomach sinking all the way to his feet.

“Many adventures with Qui-Gon, you have had. The best candidate for this, you are.” Yoda said, with a smile that put the final torch to Obi-Wan’s funeral pyre, and all his hopes of a quiet, blissful existence rummaging through the old dusty corners of the Archives, reading up on Force philosophy and Jedi history.

Obi-Wan groaned. All those years being a good Jedi, and the first thing everyone remembered was the time he’d made the mistake of agreeing to one of his Master’s hairbrained adventures. Not for the first or last time, he lamented his maverick former master’s restless wanderlust, and cursed himself for being naive enough to follow the man instead of staying in the temple with the rest of the Order.

“Get packing, you should,” Yoda added, with a cackle, “bring the whole Archives, you cannot.”

“No need to remind me,” Obi-Wan said with a sigh.

===

The Force prodded him all the way to Tatooine like a nagging headache, and he spent the first few hours cursing the sand and the heat and trying to keep the suns off his skin, already pale from spending too much time in the Archives. It wasn’t until he stepped into the cantina, drawn by the urgency of the Force, that he realized why he was there.

The young man looked up, and there was no mistaking the sulfur-yellow eyes, or the aura of Darkness that hung over him like a moon blocking out the twin suns. Power surrounded him, held him like a beloved child. It sent a chill down Obi-Wan’s spine, like that time Quinlan Vos dropped a frog down the back of his tunic.

He felt a moment of panic, knowing that he was not prepared to fight a Sith, especially not one this powerful, in the middle of a cantina filled with innocent (or, he considers, looking at the sabacc players and drug dealers and smugglers, perhaps ‘uninvolved’ is a better word) bystanders. Then, the Sith opened his mouth.

Obi-Wan was less impressed by his manners.

===

The Sith was not as terrible as he expected. Yes, he’d tried to start a bar fight, succeeded in arming the slaves and burning down half of Mos Eisley, and cutting a large swathe through the defenders with his lightsaber—well, the point was, he _had_ freed the slaves, even he had also burnt down their homes and destroyed the economy. Obi-Wan had only to plant a few more suggestions—stay strong, rebuild, keep their community together, and perhaps start a petition for aid from the Galactic Senate and elect their own representative—and the Force’s balance wobbled back in the direction of the Light.

And perhaps he didn’t have to give his lightsaber to the former slaves (he knew how much such artifacts went on the black market, and how much they would need those funds, and he had no regrets) but the Sith didn’t have to try and knife him while he was down.

He sighed, looking at the map of the galaxy, systems lit up on his holomap like scattered pearls across the dark firmament. He would choose another planet next. One far, far away from annoying Sith and their murderous tendencies. There were other ways to spread light and compassion to balance out the Darkness, ways that did not involve interacting with the confusing, mannerless, still-annoying-if-not-completely-evil Sith directly.

He’d heard there was an excellent collection of Old Republic texts on Mandalore, which included, if rumors were to be believed, the last extant copies of _Discourse on the Methods of Prognosticative Meditation in the Unifying Force_ by ancient Jedi philosopher Aprod Kochak. If there also happened to be a bit of a civil war going on in the system that he could help mediate, well, that was indeed a happy coincidence.

===

_Concord Dawn, 14 years before the Chosen One_

He found the Duchess Satine Kryze quite by accident on Concord Dawn. What he thought to be a standard highway robbery attempt--a nice young lady dressed in fine clothes facing off against some armored thugs with blasters--had apparently been more of an attempted coup. And the Duchess had stared at the traveling monk (a cover he and Qui-Gon had used quite liberally during their travels) who had just sent the robbers away with a wave of his hand (and the statement “You don’t want to rob this nice young lady, you want to go home and rethink your life”) in awe. It wasn’t until he noticed her quietly tucking her own blaster back into her skirts that he had the suspicious feeling that perhaps his intervention hadn’t been as necessary as he’d thought.

“How did you do that?” she demanded, staring at him with fierce determination mixed with suspicion, as if she could bore through his unassuming exterior into all the secrets in his head with her eyes alone.

“Er, I have a very convincing voice?” He found himself sweating in his robes, wondering if it wasn’t too late to “persuade” her into looking the other way. But even a cursory sweep of her mind revealed too much mulish tenacity to so easily sway.

“I’ve read of something like this,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “A record of a mystic order of monks with supernatural powers. It was in some old tomes in the Great Library of Sundari on Mandalore.”

Obi-Wan perked up, “Oh, is that where the--ahem. I’m sure you’re mistaken. I’m just a traveling monk. You wouldn’t happen to be heading to Sundari, would you?”

She had, indeed, been heading back to the capital, to reclaim the Duchy of Mandalore after the tragic assassination of her parents by rebel insurgents intending to restore the violent past of Mandalore. She was more than happy to take him on as an advisor, for her own curiosity and the usefulness of his persuasion if nothing else. He smiled underneath his hood, as he trailed behind her. Perhaps this was the youthful idealism and passion that Mandalore needed to turn towards the light.

===

The Duchess Satine Kryze was indeed young and full of passion, and, as the leader of the New Mandalorian faction advocating pacifism in a society that fairly worships combat ability, very good at wrangling unwilling politicians to her point of view. What she was not good at was avoiding making enemies. And not getting assassinated.

Obi-Wan thought he would drop by occasionally, offer some wise counsel to steer the government in a more peaceful direction, spend the rest of his ample free time buried in the library. Instead, he found himself stranded on the wrong planet, and stuck to her side like a pricklynettle-pod, acting as a glorified bodyguard.

“Duchess, stay behind me!” Obi-Wan said, pulling the Satine out of the way of a blaster shot to safety behind a parked speeder.

She gasped as the shot impacted the side of the speeder, filling the air with the acrid smell of burnt metal. It was but a moment before she pulled out her own blaster—set to stun only, he noticed—and began to return fire. He subtly deflected a few bolts with the Force--he was not looking forward to filling out Form 843-G for combat-related injuries in the field, and wished that he could see anything in the dust-choked streets. But vision was merely a convenience, not a necessity with the Force. He could sense the sniper three rooftops away, and, with a less than subtle twist of the force, knocked him off said roof, into a balcony of venomous begonias. That gave them a brief pause in the blaster fire, during which he dragged Satine off into a nearby alleyway, out of view from the sniper.

“I can handle myself in a fight,” she snapped at him, tugging her arm back as soon as they reached better cover.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he murmured, “But I would feel much better if you stayed _out_ of the line of fire.”

“Nonsense. How can a ruler hope to speak for her people if she stays cooped up in a safehouse all day for fear of some alleged plots—”

“I would say that being shot at by an _active_ _sniper_ is a little bit more than alleged—”

“Halt, traitors!” a third voice interrupted their half-whispered argument, and they glanced up. At the other end of the alleyway stood an imposing figure in dramatic vanta-black armor with a cape (a real cape, that was wide and sweeping, and made for an impressive, if impractical silhouette), breathing heavily through a black mask that was some twisted version of a Mandalorian face plate. Obi-Wan froze, hand at his hip, where he felt, to his chagrin, only the vibroblade and not his lightsaber. He cursed himself again for not filling out the proper paperwork.

Satine growled, “Not another one of Vizsla’s goons.”

She raised her voice, “I am not the traitor here. If anyone, it’s Tor Vizsla and his damnable Death Watch! They are the ones attempting a coup!”

“Yes, yes, I get it, he’s the bad guy, you were wrongly accused,” the masked figure made a dismissive gesture with a black-gloved hand. A very familiar gesture. “Unfortunately for you, your Grace, I don’t give an eopie’s ass about who betrayed who, I’m just here for the—“

“Vader?” Obi-Wan interrupted, and lifted his hood.

The figure paused, then, “Kenobi!” He ripped the black mask off, revealing the familiar angles of Darth Vader’s scowling face, plastered with blond curls. He pointed an accusing finger at Obi-Wan, “what are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Obi-Wan frowned, “This civil war wouldn’t be your doing, surely?”

“Ha, you wish,” Vader said, “I’ve only been here a few days. The Death Watch came up with this one all on their own. Not every conflict in the galaxy is the work of a Sith.”

“And you’re just here to enjoy the scenery?”

“A Sith’s got to eat,” Vader shrugged, “And I’ve heard there are some local delicacies on Concord Dawn.” he looked almost wistful as he said that. Obi-Wan remembered the way he savored the womp-rat, however, and wondered what culinary horrors he would encounter here. “Anyways, you’re the one toting the Duchess around like a potato sack, so don’t tell me the Jedi aren’t involved.”

“I’m an _advisor_ ,” Obi-Wan protested, glancing nervously at Satine to see if she was offended by Vader’s words (she was, judging by the pinched look on her face, but at least she wasn’t reaching for her blaster yet), “I advise her Grace. On political matters.”

“And fend off snipers?” Vader raised an eyebrow, “You know, if you’re so eager to get involved--”

“If you two are quite done arguing like a married couple,” Satine interrupted, “There’s someone coming.” She waved her blaster towards Vader, in a way that made Obi-Wan wince, “So let’s get to the part where you threaten me, and I stun you so we can be off.”

“Oh, I like this one,” Vader said with a feral grin, “It’s a shame that--”

Satine shot a stun bolt, aimed impeccably for his nose. It was only his Force-enhanced reflexes that let him dodge, and the bolt hit the wall by his head, raising dust.

“Well,” Vader said, not looking surprised at all, “That was uncalled for.” He snapped on his lightsaber with a hiss. The red blade thrummed, bathing the narrow alleyway in lurid crimson.

“And that’s our signal to run,” Obi-Wan muttered, “Duchess, if you please.” He grabbed her by the elbow again, and none too gently steered her out the alleyway and back into the streets.

She shot again, and he heard the tell-tale whine of a reflected blaster bolt, and ducked again, letting the rebound pass harmlessly over their heads.

“What the kriff was that,” Satine said, slightly breathless.

“Yes, I forgot to mention, blasters don’t work well against him,” Obi-Wan said, and used the Force to launch the already ruined speeder in the direction of their pursuer. A red blade cut through the metal with a loud hiss, and the speeder fell away in two halves, molten metal dripping from the cut. Obi-Wan winced, “It’s best if we lose him quickly.”

“I thought Jedi were peacekeepers,” Satine snapped, eyes wide as she glanced behind her, “So why is your friend trying to kill us?”

Obi-Wan scowled, pressing forward even faster. “He is _not_ a Jedi, and I would hardly call him a _friend_.” He protested, “in fact, we are enemies of the highest order. Mortal nemeses, if you will.”

The dubious look and perfectly arched eyebrow she sent his way did nothing to improve his mood.

===

Obi-Wan supposed getting away from Vader with no more than a few scrapes and burns from molten metal was a lucky break, uncharacteristic of his life. But balance restored itself as their luck ran out just as quickly when they discovered that their ride off the planet to Mandalore turned out to be a Death Watch informant, and they found themselves surrounded by a veritable sea of blasters.

“Can’t you _persuade_ them to let us go?” Satine hissed, hands in the air, as a Death Watch member removed her hidden blaster. And the five different vibroblades that she had somehow managed to hide in her dress. And the two stun grenades in her boots, as well as the three electroshock pins in her hair. The Death Watch members were whistling in admiration by the time the last pin was removed. Obi-Wan stared and wondered why he’d ever thought she needed help.

“I don’t think these fine people are in a persuadable mindset,” he murmured, mirroring her posture of surrender. It was just his luck that they were not as weak-minded as the ones attempting to waylay Satine earlier.

“This is the only weapon you’re carrying?” The Death Watch member searching Obi-Wan said, waving the vibroblade he’d gotten from Vader. She sounded amused, “It’s puny.”

“I find that there are more civilized ways than violence to resolve most issues,” he said, primly.

“Man, are you in the wrong system for that,” the Death Watch member snickered. Obi-Wan briefly considered whether the Jedi High Council would appreciate a report on the plausibility of mind tricking fifteen people into knocking themselves out.

Fortunately for Obi-Wan’s continued goodwill with the Jedi Council, the Death Watch apparently had more plans than direct assassination. Instead of shooting them straight out, they marched their prisoners onto a transport ship, headed for the Death Watch headquarters. They cuffed Satine twice, he noticed.

===

“You again?” Satine said, stumbling onto the floor of the prison cell as the Death Watch minion shoved her in. Obi-Wan cushioned her landing with a bit of the Force, and stared at the other occupant of their prison cell. He really had the Siths’ own luck, he thought bitterly.

“Nice to see you too, Duchess,” Darth Vader drawled, with a smile, then glared at Obi-Wan, “Jedi.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” Obi-Wan said.

“Why are you in here anyways?” Satine asked, sounding more curious than properly annoyed, “I thought you worked for the Death Watch?”

“Apparently since I let you escape, I must be helping you,” Vader said, with an aggravated huff, “Not like they were paying me much, anyways.”

Obi-Wan bristled, “You didn’t _let_ us do anything! It was a legitimate escape—“

“You weren’t worth the effort—“

“Can you two be quiet for a second?” Satine snapped, “we need to focus on getting out of the Death Watch fortress instead of your little philosophical disagreement.” She turned her gaze towards Vader, and Obi-Wan could already imagine the shrewd look in her eyes. He had a sinking feeling that she was about to propose something he would definitely disapprove of.

“Look,” she said, “Sir...Vader, was it? You’re stuck here, and we’re trying to get out. It would be in everyone’s best interest to work together.”

“No!” Obi-Wan protested immediately, “or did you forget the part where he tried to kill you just a few days ago?”

“It’s Darth Vader,” Vader said, with a dismissive wave, “And the whole assassination thing was just a job. Nothing personal, your Grace.”

“Noted,” Satine said, then turned to Obi-Wan, “We can either wait around to be publicly executed as insurgents, or we can use his expertise of this fortress to steal a starship and fly directly to Mandalore.” she looked towards Vader, “You _do_ know your way around here, right?”

“Of course,” Vader said smugly.

Obi-Wan heaved a sigh, knowing from the set of her shoulders that any further arguments would be like trying to dig through a durasteel wall with only a dull spoon. “Let it be known that I strongly disagree with this course of action,” was all he said.

“And I strongly disagree with your face,” Vader said.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, of course he shouldn’t expect the Sith to be the mature one in this situation, “Just know, Sith, that if you do anything suspicious…”

“You’ll pull my intestines out through my mouth with your bare hands?” Vader said, looking bored, “I’ve heard it all before.”

“What? No!” Obi-Wan said, appalled. It was quite a graphic and un-Jedi-like threat, but then again, any threat was not befitting of a Jedi, “I’ll...make you regret it somehow.” he finished, lamely.

“Huh,” Vader said, “Haven’t heard that one yet. Can’t say it’s very effective as a threat.”

“Focus, gentlemen,” Satine said, peering out through the durasteel bars that made up the wall of their prison, “have you figured out the guard rotations?”

“The usual patrol comes every fifteen minutes,” Vader said, helpfully.

Satine nodded, “We’ll have to take them out if we don’t want them to alert their friends that we’re gone.”

“I only sense a single pair of guards,” Obi-Wan said, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor and reaching out for nearby sentient minds with the Force, “Do you know where the nearest exit is? A speeder, or starship?”

“There’s a hangar bay three hallways south of here,” Vader said, “they’ve got a few beautiful ships I’ve been dying to get my hands on.” The look on his face was soft, as if he were describing some old lover, the way Qui-Gon had looked elbow-deep in the damp soil of his garden with his pathetic life forms. Obi-Wan felt a stab of nostalgia at the thought, but quickly shook it off. No, this Sith was nothing like his old Master. He turned his thoughts away, forcefully, and focused back on the present. Escape, that was important.

“Well, if we can get out of the cell after the next change of shifts, we can make a run for it,” Satine said.

“Just let me get to my lightsaber, and I’ll make a path through,” Vader said, “I think they’re keeping it in the armory two rooms over.”

“Absolutely not,” Obi-Wan said sharply, “We can’t kill anyone!”

Vader stared at him incredulously, “They are going to _execute_ you!”

“They’re just following orders, that doesn’t mean they deserve to die!”

“Them just following orders doesn’t help when you’re dead,” Vader sneered, “Kriffing Jedi.”

Obi-Wan crossed his arms, “Regardless, I don’t condone that kind of wanton killing. A life, no matter how misguided, or evil, is not a small thing to take.”

“Well, Jedi, if you don’t condone it, maybe we should just offer up our necks? Hold up giant targets to help them shoot us?”

“Obviously we can defend ourselves,” Obi-Wan said. Vader jumped from one extreme to another so easily, but he supposed it shouldn’t have surprised him how the Sith saw things in absolutes, “Just not with deadly force.”

“Well what’s the fun in that?”

“Now is not the time for a lengthy debate on the morality of killing,” Satine said, “we’ll need weapons for sure, unless you know an unguarded path to the hangars,” she looked at Vader, who shrugged.

“They’re very thorough here. The hallways are patrolled, even the ones that no one uses. The vents are too small for a grown human,” he said, “and I _prefer_ fighting my way out.”

“Uncivilized,” Obi-Wan muttered under his breath, though judging from the glare Vader sent him, he hadn’t missed it.

Satine sighed, “Pity. But I agree with the no killing rule. It isn’t exactly befitting a ruler to slaughter her own people. And they are Mandalorian, even if they don’t agree with the politics.”

Vader groaned, “Whatever,” he said, “So long as I get to stab at least one of them.”

“Non-fatally,” Obi-Wan added, with a warning glare.

“Fine. Nothing more than a limb or two.”

“One limb per person, and you can punch as many as you want.”

“Deal,” Vader said, looking smug in a way that made Obi-Wan wonder if he’d just made a terrible mistake. Bargaining with the enemy...well, it was the Jedi way to compromise, wasn’t it? Qui-Gon had been a big proponent of compromise. Though, a voice in his mind whispered, Qui-Gon hadn’t been a very good Jedi in the end.

“Deal,” he swallowed his mental objections. If it could keep Vader from taking innocent or not-so-innocent lives, well he was sure the Death Watch would rather be down a limb than dead. He heard prosthetics were quite advanced these days. 

Satine was looking at them like they were a pair of idiots, “If you’re quite done arguing,” she said, “I believe the guard rotation is almost back.”

===

The trip to the weapons stash was short and brutal. Vader had found a few unfortunate Death Watch members toying around with his lightsaber, and had almost flown into an unstoppable rage. He only stopped at amputation when Obi-Wan Force-pushed him away and reminded him sharply that he couldn’t stab the same person he de-limbed, and any further harm would be breaking their hasty contract. At least, Obi-Wan mused, lightsaber injuries were self-cauterizing, preventing a victim from bleeding out. Satine had mentioned that the Mandalorian healthcare system had an advanced prosthetic program that could help with such incidents.

Satine found her own weapons with ease and tucked them eagerly back into the various pockets and hidden places on her person. And if she took a few more blasters and vibroknives than he remembered her having, well, he knew the dangers of standing between a Mandalorian and her weapons, however non-violently inclined she might be.

He picked up the vibroknife that he’d lost (no one seemed interested in it, it seemed), and, after a moment’s thought, picked up a sturdy staff as well. It would, he figured, complete his traveling-monk look, and had a much longer reach than the vibroknife. It was also decidedly large and the opposite of puny, which had no effect on his decision to take it, of course.

The hangar had been easy after that. Between the three of them, they’d taken down any Death Watch members they’d come across. Quietly, if possible, and violently, if not. Obi-Wan counted at least three lost limbs and half a dozen lightsaber stabbings on the way, not to mention more stun blasts than he could count, but no deaths. He had to brain a few unfortunate Death Watch members over the head with his new staff to save them from Vader’s enthusiastic amputations, and winced each time. At this rate, he might soon start adopting Old-Republic High Basic grammar and become a larger version of Master Yoda.

“Which ship can you, ah, access?” he asked, looking at the array of starships, ranging from hulking freighters to lightweight fighters. Vader, looking like a child who’d just fallen into a large vat of candy, pointed at the shiniest one.

To his credit, Vader did indeed make quick work of the ship’s security system, with a few Force-enhanced tweaks of the access panel.

“I hope you know how to pilot,” Obi-Wan said, climbing aboard with Satine close on his heels. 

“Oh don’t worry,” Vader said, in a tone that made Obi-Wan do just that, “I’m a great pilot.”

===

Vader was good at piloting, they all found out, but terrible at making sure his passengers survived the trip. There was an undignified amount of screaming and clinging to nearby solid surfaces, and avoiding things that had not been bolted down. Obi-Wan regretted choosing such a large staff when he lost hold of it on a particularly steep dive and it crashed around the cockpit, missed his head by inches, and lodged itself into the cabin door. But they made it off planet, despite the Death Watch shooting at them all the way through the atmosphere, and jumped to hyperspace as soon as they could.

Thankfully, hyperspace was less exciting, and, after scraping himself off the floor and checking on Satine (alive but dazed, though a discreet Force scan showed no signs of major damage, and aware enough to wave him off with an annoyed “keep an eye on that friend of yours”), he double checked the destination coordinates for Sundari and dragged himself to keep an eye on his enemy.

Vader was in the kitchen, cooing at the fully stocked fridge. Some unfortunate Death Watch member had been just about to leave on an interstellar trip, it seemed.

“They’ve got Tiingilar!” Vader crowed, rummaging through the meticulously labeled containers.

“What?”

“It’s a specialty dish here,” Vader said, holding up a box of red...mush, “that contains the hottest spice mix in the whole Outer Rim.” The look on his face would not have been out of place in a Chandrilian love drama. It was almost endearing, if he wasn’t talking about mush that could potentially kill an unwary man.

“That sounds...terrible,” Obi-Wan said frankly. He had tasted the spices favored on Tatooine, and he was pretty sure his tongue would never quite fully recover. And Satine had convinced him to try a few of the milder Mandalorian dishes, and still...he longed for the mild bread that they had on Ahch-To, or the sapir-bark tea that Qui-Gon favored.

Vader made a face, “You just have no taste.”

“To the contrary, I believe I still have taste buds thanks to a lifetime of _not_ eating things that resemble room-temperature magma.”

“Oh, Tiingilar!” Satine piped up from where she had stumbled in behind Obi-Wan, “Love the stuff.”

“Finally, a woman of taste!” Vader said, with a smug smirk.

Obi-Wan sighed. Trust the Force to surround him with crazy people who enjoyed burning off all their taste buds. There had better be some tea on this ship.

===

“Complete pacifism is a stupid idea!” Vader said, emphasizing his point with a thrust of his spoon. The Tiingilar in the spoon sloshed, and Obi-Wan just barely kept himself from flinching back in an undignified manner to avoid the droplets. “How are you going to protect yourselves if you disband the army? Talk enemies into submission? It will just make you sitting targets for pirates and slavers!”

“I disagree,” Obi-Wan said, instead, carefully sipping his tea, “To fight risks a regress into Mandalore’s wartorn past. It hasn’t been very long since the great civil wars that tore the planet to shreds, and any further conflict on that scale would absolutely destroy the planet’s remaining natural resources and tear the people apart.”

Satine looked thoughtful, over her own bowl. “Perhaps,” she said, “There is a good compromise. We don’t have to disband the army, but neither should we take glory in fighting. A rotating militia, instead of a standing army, and a hierarchy based on diplomacy rather than combat ability…”

Obi-Wan raised his voice in protest at the same time as Vader, and quieted as Satine shot them a warning glare that could pierce beskar.

“You’ve given me much to think about, gentlemen,” she said, with the kind of regal dismissal only seen in people who have ample experience outmaneuvering dissenting groups, “I thank you for your help in the matter of the Death Watch, but I think matters of state are better left to the politicians.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Obi-Wan demurred, though he sent an annoyed glare towards Vader, who was glaring back.

He had been so close to convincing her of the need for pacifism, which would have shifted the balance of the Force in favor of the Light side. A good Jedi, he supposed, might have been a bit more insistent, given a mental push in the right direction for the greater good of the galaxy. What was a bit of encouragement here to all the potential future beings saved from conflict? But he knew in his bones that to do so would be a violation of Satine’s will, would undermine her determination that resonated so brightly in the Force, and he could not bring himself to do it. If that made him less of a good Jedi, he supposed he could live with it.

===

_The future of Mandalore under the Duchess, now that the Death Watch is no longer a threat to her life, should be more peaceful, and headed towards the Light. Though the Duchess has not let go of all her people’s attachments to their militant past, the New Mandalorian Faction has begun to reform the army culture into something much more suited for peace..._

Obi-Wan looked down at the mission report, fiddling with his datapad. What he wrote was technically the truth, from a certain point of view. It was not the whole truth, but really, did the Jedi Council truly need to know every excruciating detail of his mission? The important part was that he succeeded, and the Death Watch would not rule the Mandalorian system. There were a few stumbling blocks, yes, but there was peace in the end. And that was what mattered, wasn’t it?

With a nod that had more certainty than he felt, he submitted the report. He just hoped this was the last time he found himself unintentionally on the same side as the Sith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, work has gotten a bit crazy lately, but hopefully things will calm down by next week and I can get to writing and updating more regularly. I apologize for any errors in the timeline, but hey it’s an AU.


	3. An Adventure or Three (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padme finally makes an appearance! And more (mis)adventures of Anakin and Obi-Wan.

Anakin didn’t know why he kept running into the Jedi. Perhaps it was the Force urging him to finally off the idiot, or some plan of Sidious’ to finally push him over the edge. And there were only so many reports he could send back to Moraband without mentioning how the Jedi somehow seemed to turn his every scheme on its head. Not that he failed, of course, he just...made adjustments. In fact, he’d started fudging details on the reports to exclude Kenobi’s presence, skipping a few unimportant details. It was his success that was the important part. He was pretty sure Sidious didn’t read them anyways. If only he could stop running into the cause of his misery.

Five planets he’d been to on his impossible quest to drag the galaxy into Darkness, and on all five the Jedi had been waiting. Oh Kenobi said it wasn’t on purpose, and there was no conceivable way the Jedi could know his travel plans (since he usually made those by choosing a random star system off the starmap), but five times was four too many for coincidence.

Naboo would be his next stop. He heard they served the best seafood feasts in the Mid Rim, and their queen was young and newly elected, which meant impressionable and easily swayed. A prime target for a Dark influence. And the best part was, he had let it slip that his next stop would be Alderaan, so Kenobi would no doubt be far, far away when he met with the queen.

===

_Naboo, 10 years before the Chosen One_

The queen of Naboo was younger than he expected. But he could work with that. Younger girls, especially the soft Mid-Rim ones, were easier to impress, just flex a few muscles and put on his least murderous smile, and let his baby blues do the talking. Or that was how Asajj had put it. As she was the only person he knew who’d had any experience with girls, Mid-Rim or not, even if that experience was limited to whatever experimentations from before she’d come to the Sith temple with Tyrannus, he decided to follow her advice, however questionable. If only the queen would deign to actually see him.

“Lord Vader, was it? Unfortunately, her highness is quite busy,” the handmaiden, Padme, said, “she gets many petitions from citizens in need of her guidance. Even on Naboo, there are many duties for a ruler to fulfill, and a queen must put her citizens first.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, “important royal duties and all.” Anakin bit back a petulant groan. He’d been waiting here for _hours_ , and the Naboo didn’t even have the decency to leave a refreshments table. For all her youth and waifish face, Padme seemed immune to his muscle flexing and non-murderous smiling. In fact, she seemed almost confused by it.

“If I may ask,” she said, “Why exactly does this ‘Great Empire of the Sith’ of yours need an audience with the queen of Naboo?”

Anakin winced, wishing there were some other organization name he could put on the petition. But Sidious insisted they use their full name, regardless of the fact that the so called great empire was no more than a few spiteful Sith Lords holed up in a rotting temple.

“Er, it’s more of a, ah, spiritual thing,” he said, searching for the right words, “we’re not really an empire, we just live in a temple on an outer rim planet that _used_ to be an empire, but—well, anyways have you heard of the Force?”

A look of realization was growing on Padme's face. “You’re a religious organization,” she said, with the look of someone who has just realized that the dark tall stranger in front of her is actually three kids in a trench coat.

“No! I mean yes—sort of,” he cursed under his breath, and made a sharp gesture in frustration. The windows, tall and letting in the rosy evening light, rattled, despite the calm. A lamp flew free of its wall socket and crashed into the floor at Anakin’s feet. To her credit, Padme didn’t scream, but she jerked in a full-body flinch. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were full of astonishment, mixed in with a bit of fear, and a lot of something else he couldn’t quite identify.

“Anyways,” he said, only slightly apologetic, “I would really appreciate it if I could get an audience with the queen.”

===

Padme did not take him to see the queen, but instead took him out to an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet, which was infinitely better than some cold throne room full of suspicious courtiers. He stuffed his face with space-shrimp and glider-crab legs, and she questioned him on the Force and the Sith. It was definitely more enjoyable than any stuffy conversation with a stuck-up queen looking down at him from her throne. He didn’t even need to flex his arms, though he tried not to get any shrimp sauce on Padme’s clothes. He wasn’t a complete nerfherder. He supposed she wasn’t the worst, and perhaps if he made the Sith sound powerful enough, she would be able to convince the queen to swear allegiance to them when the time came.

Padme, who had only taken a few bites of her own sparse platter before stopping to stare in horrified fascination at Anakin devouring his third plate of space shrimp, said, “So, could you explain to me what this Force of yours is.”

Anakin swallowed the space shrimp in his mouth quickly. “The Force?” he grasped for something to say, “I’m not an expert on the theory of it, but I know how to use it.” He knew how to use it well, in fact.

Padme leaned forward, intrigued in a way she hadn’t been by his muscle flexing and smiling. “Oh? And what can the Force do?”

The Force could do a lot of things. It could change minds without the tedious need to actually convince people with words or false promises. It could crush your enemies underneath your iron will, and keep your allies afraid enough to never betray you. It could turn pain and anger and loss into power, power that would keep you safe and free.

Anakin eagerly expounded on the virtues—or should it be vices?—of the Force, and watched Padme’s eyebrows rise higher and higher on her forehead. Her expression was interested, but the polite kind of interest that belied a mind already made up.

“Look,” Padme said, as his impromptu speech petered out, “You seem like a very nice young man. But I don’t think the queen will be interested in joining your Sith Empire.”

“What? How would you know, you haven’t even spoken to her!” Anakin protested. He could change her mind. In fact, he should change her mind, just reach in and crush her thoughts into splinters to be shaped like molten metal in the crucible of his power, the way he’d tried to do with the planetary ruler three planets back before that Force-damned Jedi stepped in and ruined everything. But, well, Padme had treated him to the seafood buffet. And she was just a handmaiden.

Padme spread her hands on the table in a placating gesture, “I know the queen’s mind. Naboo has no need of power, we are a peaceful planet.”

“You could be more peaceful if you had the power of the Sith,” Anakin insisted, “Your enemies would fear you, and you could force your allies to join you. Peacefully, of course.” 

Padme sighed, “Having peace forced upon you is worse than not having it at all,” she said solemnly.

Anakin scowled, but he didn’t try to argue. There was the bite of truth in her words. In the choice between freedom and peace, he knew where his own decision would lay. “Well it’s the queen’s loss. You let her know what she could have been, if it hadn’t been for a meddling handmaiden.”

At that, Padme’s lip twitched up in a smile, “I will be sure to let her know.”

There was something about her smile, a knowing amusement that made him suspicious. He’d never had a head for intrigue, though, not like Sidious or Tyranus, or even Asajj, so he shrugged it off as just another quirk of Mid-Rim girls. ( _Wait!_ He would say, years later, _You were the queen all along, weren’t you?_ And her laughter in response would only inspire fondness in him, not anger. But that was later.)

“Since the queen obviously isn’t interested in my amazing talents, is there anything else to do on this planet?” he asked with a sigh.

“Oh, lots,” Padme said, smiling widely, “I can show you around Theed, if you like, since the queen will be busy all day. There’s a great view of the city from the palace gardens, and they have the best dessert shops in the Cloud district.”

“Great,” he said, perking up already, “Lead the way then.”

===

Naboo, he thought, was the first planet he didn’t want to leave. Even as he ascended the ramp of his small starship, he felt the tug of loss in his chest, one that wasn’t filled by all his anger. Naboo was...peaceful, and beautiful, and full of wonderful food, and everything Moraband wasn’t. And Padme was...well, he would say a friend if the Sith had such weaknesses. But they didn’t—he didn’t. He couldn’t. She was a...potential ally. Yes, that sounded better.

“I want you to know, Lord Vader, that even if the queen does not accept the Sith Empire’s offer, you are always welcome here.” Padme said solemnly from the foot of the starship ramp, “And you will always have at least one friend on Naboo.”

“Oh,” Anakin didn’t know what the feeling in his chest was. Warm, but not the burning heat of anger. Soft, but not the soft rot of weakness.

“Safe travels,” she said, smiling, “May the stars guide you.”

“And may the Force be with you,” Anakin said in return, before he could stop himself. It was not a Sith saying, but it felt...right. Proper. He bit his tongue, hard enough to taste blood, “and, uh, thanks for the food.” he added, then spun quickly onto the loading ramp of his ship. He didn’t want to see her face, or her to see his.

Her laughter followed him up as he rose through the atmosphere and into the black expanse of space.

===

_Unnamed Planet, Wild Spac, 8 years before the Chosen One_

“Jedi?” Anakin said, staring at the lump of damp robes on the floor, bathed in the red of his lightsaber blade. He nudged it gently with a foot, and it groaned. Still alive then. He couldn’t say that was a relief, considering, well, Jedi, but he would rather not be stuck in a blocked-off cave with a dead body for who knows how long.

“Are you injured?” he asked, and received only another groan.

“If you die here I’ll probably have to eat your body,” Anakin said.

“Wha—” That seemed to get the Jedi’s attention, and he pushed himself up onto a shaky elbow, eyes glazed but still clear enough to glare, “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s good protein that would otherwise go to waste,” Anakin smirked, squatting just outside of lightsaber reach. In the dim light, he could see a dark trail of liquid down the Jedi’s face from some unseen wound past his hairline. “But you’re awake now, so we’ll both have to go hungry.”

“Ugh,” Kenobi groaned, flopping back down, but he was responding at least. That was a good sign for someone with a head injury, “what happened?”

“Rockslide,” Anakin said, “You got clipped by a stray boulder. I guess the mountain gods aren’t too happy with us.”

They were on a backwards planet just outside of Republic space, with natural resources abound, but a population that still believed that thunder was the sign of the gods’ anger, and that any outsiders were there to corrupt the order of things and should be killed with extreme prejudice. They hadn’t reacted well to his spaceship landing in the middle of their village, but it seemed that Kenobi had also been run off from his own ship where he’d landed a few villages over in some misguided attempt to stop Anakin from terrorizing the locals. The locals seemed to have the terrorizing part figured out, as they’d chased the Jedi and Sith out of town with the antique metal-slingers they called weapons, and they hadn’t stopped until they’d gotten to the foot of the mountain they considered holy ground. At this point, Anakin was pretty sure the locals only avoided it because of the frequent rockslides.

He supposed he could have done something smarter than challenging the Jedi to a lightsaber fight on unstable ground, in the middle of a rainstorm. But it had been glorious--Kenobi was no amateur with the ‘saber, all smooth movement and impenetrable defense, and the thunder rumbling in his bones, the rain sizzling off their clashing plasma blades had made his blood _sing_. Right up until the piece of mountain they’d been standing on collapsed underneath them.

And if they hadn’t found the cave--If Kenobi hadn’t thrown them both in just as the ground shifted and all the force of the earth came crashing down--Well, Anakin knew he was stronger than average with the Force, but he didn’t want to test how his command of the Force held up against an entire mountainside’s worth of rock. He wouldn’t thank the Jedi, though. It wasn’t as if he’d _asked_ to be saved like some kind of weakling.

A sigh emerged from the wet pile of robes, “I don’t suppose you’d put our fight on hold?”

“I don’t fight people who can barely stand,” Anakin said, distractedly, “It’s no challenge, and therefore no fun.”

He raised his lightsaber and turned to pace the small space, letting the light fall across the narrow entrance of the cave. No sign of light at all, and a probe with the Force told him the rock went quite a few meters. Force damn it. At least there were still small gaps in the rocks to allow air exchange, so they would only have to worry about starvation and dehydration instead of suffocation.

“Looks like there’s no escape this way,” he said, “We’re stuck.”

Kenobi let out a sigh that was half-groan, “Just my luck.” He sat up again, more carefully this time, squinting. “Must you use that lurid color for lighting? It’s quite unflattering.”

Anakin stared at him. Just how concussed was the Jedi? “Unfortunately, Sith sabers only come in Kill-Me-Sithly Red.” He said, “For other colors please contact the Sith Empire Public Relations Office located in the system Go-Kark-Yourself.”

Kenobi let out a wet chuckle at that, which probably meant he was close to death, if he was laughing at a Sith joke.

“If you’re so concerned about color, just light up yours.” Anakin said.

“Can’t. Lost it.” Kenobi said, then muttered something under his breath about paperwork.

“Shame,” Anakin said, and the word came out more genuine than he intended. There would be no conclusion to the fight. Though for any fight to happen at all, they would have to escape the cave first.

“I feel a breeze,” Kenobi murmured.

“Good for you?” Anakin hadn’t noticed any rips in Kenobi’s clothes, but then again he hadn’t been looking.

“No, good for us,” Kenobi said, and waved a hand towards the back wall, “airflow.”

Oh. Anakin was glad that his lightsaber was red. It meant the Jedi couldn’t see his face flush. “Right.” he moved over, and wet his finger in his mouth. He held it out near the back wall of the cave, and felt a faint coolness on one side. A breeze. A closer look with his lightsaber revealed a thin crack in the wall, just wide enough for an adult sized human to squeeze through if they crab-walked sideways.

“Looks like your luck hasn’t run out just yet,” he said, “there’s a path through.”

Kenobi sighed, and levered himself to shaky feet. Anakin had the strangest urge to reach out and steady him. He didn’t, because he knew better than to approach an enemy, even a weakened one. In any case, Kenobi steadied himself on the wall of the cave instead of falling flat on his face, and Anakin’s relief was perfectly natural. It would be a shame for the Jedi to die before they had a proper fight, one that wasn’t interrupted by a rockslide or riot, that was all.

“I’ll go first,” he said, “wouldn’t want you to die and block the passage with your useless body.”

He ignored Kenobi’s offended spluttering and began slowly inching his way into the crevice. The walls pressed in precipitously, and Anakin was reminded of the time he had followed a droid into one of the servitor passages of the temple on Moraband when he was younger, squeezing through tubes in the walls like a mouse droid. That journey had ended in Asajj’s quarters, where he’d fallen through the ceiling and been chased out by an enraged Asajj and her twin lightsabers. He hoped this one would take him somewhere with less potential for dismemberment.

He didn’t think about the fact that his back was wide open to Kenobi. If the Jedi tried anything, he would—well, the Jedi was probably too noble for such underhanded tactics.

Kenobi followed slowly, moving carefully through the slowly widening passage as if every step jarred his injury, and Anakin kept his pace sedate. To keep a lookout for danger, of course. The passage widened enough for two abreast, and he kept the Jedi in sight (so he didn’t try anything) as they made their way by the crimson glow of his lightsaber. The red light cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, turning every stalactite into a descending monster, and every stalagmite into a crouching enemy. The Force whispered vague warnings, keeping him on edge as they crept forward. Slime coated the damp walls, and a terrible smell, like wet garbage and shyrak stew lingered in the air. Just like Moraband, Anakin mused with a grimace. He couldn’t wait to be out of there.

“Wait,” Kenobi said suddenly, coming to a stop. He was staring at something on the walls, a patch of unusual slime perhaps.

“Come on, Jedi, we don’t have time to gawk at the pretty rocks.” Anakin snapped.

“There’s something carved here,” Kenobi said, ignoring him, “It could be important. Bring the light closer.”

Anakin scowled, caught between the impulse to snap that he didn’t listen to karking Jedi scum, and the curiosity as to what could be written on the wall of a cave. Hopefully, it would be directions to the exit. With his luck, it could also be the dying message of the last unfortunate to get stuck in this cave system never to see the light of day.

He brought his lightsaber closer. The walls glistened with moisture, but underneath there were some markings that looked more complex than the usual animal scratchings on cave walls.

“I don’t think this is just a cave system,” Kenobi murmured, brushing aside some of the slime, not even flinching as it dripped onto the sleeve of his robe. Beneath, there were some more markings, weathered by time and dampness. Anakin frowned, trying to make sense of it. If he squinted, it looked a bit like little people, dancing in a circle, around some four-legged animal. Some large creature with horns on its head stood above them all like a vengeful god, four-armed and with a mouth full of jagged teeth.

“Just because some weirdo scratched their strange fantasies on the wall doesn’t make it someone’s house or secret hideout.”

“The walls are too flat and the tunnels too straight to be natural,” Kenobi said, absently, “Some sentient species carved the passages out from the mountain, a long time ago. There are sconces for lighting along these walls, see?” he pointed towards a strange outcropping of the wall above. If Anakin tilted his head, he could imagine a flaming torch sticking out from it.

“Maybe,” he said, “But there’s definitely no one here now.”

Kenobi ignored him, staring pensively at the carvings. He pulled on his beard as he thought, heedless of the way he was getting slime in it. He made his way slowly along the wall, staring at more of the carvings.

“A temple,” Kenobi said, at last, just as Anakin was about to drag him away to look for something actually useful, like an exit, “I believe this place used to be a temple of some sort. The locals did worship the mountain gods.”

“Does the temple have an emergency exit sign?” Anakin asked.

Kenobi sent him a dry look, “Unfortunately, it looks like the ancient civilization that carved these did not conform to modern workplace safety standards.”

“Shame,” Anakin said, “You can get your rocks off at the next abandoned temple we find. Let’s go.”

“But the historical and cultural value—“

“The historical and cultural value will still be here after we find the exit,” Anakin said, “That’s why it’s historical. We, on the other hand, will probably die of starvation if we don’t make it out sometime in the next week!”

Kenobi gave in eventually, particularly when Anakin threatened to take away the light source. He should have just left him, but watching him squint at the wall scratchings and inadvertently get cave slime all over his usually fastidious robes was...amusing. Yes. He was amused by the Jedi making a fool of himself.

“We should inform the locals of this place,” Kenobi said, as they found their way to another fork in the road. Anakin had been a proponent of using his lightsaber to carve a few arrows to indicate which direction they took, but Kenobi looked so affronted at the proposed desecration of a holy site that he settled with bits of cloth ripped from the Jedi’s robe instead.

“You mean the locals that tried to kill us?” Anakin stared at him incredulously.

“It’s their cultural history,” Kenobi said, as if pointing out the obvious.

“Yeah, their culture that also thinks killing all outsiders is a gods-given right!”

“We just startled them.”

“If that’s their response to being startled, I don’t want to know what happens when they find out we’ve been hiking through their holy site touching their holy wall scratchings.”

Kenobi opened his mouth to respond, but something shifted in the passage before them, small but still visible. Anakin jerked his hand, swinging his lightsaber towards the movement and sending shadows skittering across the walls.

“Who’s there?” He called.

The only response was a frantic shuffling in the direction of the movement. Anakin leapt forward and cornered the small—creature.

“I think it is a local animal,” Kenobi said, coming up behind him.

Anakin studied the quivering thing. It was red in the light of his ‘saber, and had darker bristles along its rounded face and two long ears crowning its head. Hunched over, it barely reached his knee, and its four front limbs, lines with coarse, dark fur, were covering its head as it cowered away from him, hissing with a mouthful of tiny, razor teeth. He lifted his ‘saber.

“Wait!” Kenobi said, grabbing his arm, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it’s edible,” Anakin said.

“You can’t eat it!”

“Last I checked there was no other food in this place. I’m not going to starve because you think it’s cute or some stupid Jedi sentiment.”

“Exactly! There is no food here. So in order for a creature to survive, it must be going out to forage.”

Anakin groaned, and lowered his lightsaber. He supposed the Jedi was right sometimes. “I guess I can wait until it leads us to an exit,” he muttered. It would make a decent meal, if a bit on the leaner side.

“Hey,” Kenobi had knelt down, and was reaching out a careful hand to the animal, “We mean you no harm.” He glanced up at Anakin, then amended, “Or, at least I mean you no harm.” He was exuding peace and soothing calm into the Force. It made Anakin want to gag, but it seemed to work on the little animal, which calmed its flailing and sniffed at his fingers cautiously. It made a curious trilling sound, and grabbed at a finger with it’s larger forelimb, its short stubby tail quivering in excitement.

Kenobi smiled, a small, besotted smile that curled the edges of his mouth like the edges of a newly unfurled leaf. “Aren’t you a bold one,” he said, giving the small creature a careful scratch on the chin bristles, “Don’t worry, I won’t let the scary Sith eat you.”

Anakin shifted, “Now get it to lead us out,” he hissed.

The animal drew back at the sound of Anakin’s voice, cowering, and Kenobi soothed it with a comforting murmur as he shot a glare at Anakin, but at least he was no longer smiling so stupidly. Anakin scowled at him, but said nothing more, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Now,” Kenobi said, “won’t you show us where you get your food?”

The red little creature scampered forward as if it had understood, grunting happily as it headed out into the darkness. It led them down the passageways, glancing back to see if they were following, and occasionally doubling back for quick scratches from Kenobi and hisses at Anakin. Anakin hissed back, if for nothing else than Kenobi’s affronted looks when he did so.

Anakin was almost hopeful that they would make it out when the creature stopped at a dead end corridor, where the ground was covered in dry sticks and scraps of foliage, and bounced happily, as if this were some great accomplishment.

“This isn’t an exit,” Anakin said, watching the animal prance around the dead end. It smelled like death too, concentrated stink filling the corridor.

“It appears that this is where our little friend lives,” Kenobi said, with a frown, “I guess he must have thought we wanted to see his home.”

“Great, so it’s useless after all, can we eat it now?” Anakin wondered when the wretched thing had been upgraded to a friend. Kenobi rolled his eyes.

“Of course not, I promised him you wouldn’t eat him,” Kenobi said, watching the little beast roll around happily in the pile of sticks, “Though, I have the strangest feeling that I’ve seen this kind of creature before.”

A stray kick by the creature knocked a stick out of the nest, and it bounced off Anakin’s foot. He stared, where it lolled against his boot, and slowly bent to pick it up. It was not a stick.

“Maybe we should take a look elsewhere for an exit,” Anakin said.

“Oh, yes,” Kenobi said, with a sudden grin, “I remember! It looks just like a smaller version of a gundark! I’ve seen those before on Vanquor.”

“A gundark?” Anakin said with a sort of sick fascination, “Would those happen to be large and carnivorous?”

“Oh yes, they’re quite large and fearsome,” Kenobi said cheerfully, “I remember my old Master tried to befriend one when we stumbled across it in the wild. It nearly tore his arm off.”

“How close are we to the Vanquor system?”

“Not far, actually, now that you mention it,” Kenobi looked at him askance, “Why the sudden interest in galactic cartography?”

Anakin wordlessly handed him the long femur that had rolled out of the nest of bones. Kenobi’s eyes widened. “I think,” Anakin said, “We’d better get out of here soon.”

“It makes a kind of sense,” Kenobi said, still staring between the bones and what was now clearly a baby gundark, “that the native population would avoid these caves and worship their mountain gods with offerings of meat and livestock.”

“Really?” Anakin said, “you don’t say.”

Before Kenobi could reply, a howl shattered the silence, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching at a ground-shaking speed. The baby gundark—Force, he was going to kriffing murder Kenobi after this—shrieked in glee. Probably happy to have brought home the next meal, the wretched little beast.

“I think,” Kenobi said faintly, “we may have just found the mountain gods.”

They tried to run for it. Unfortunately, there was only one entrance to a dead end.

The adult gundark loomed suddenly out of the darkness, legs as thick as the tree-trunks of Naboo’s ancient forests, and teeth as long as a forearm, and Anakin barely skidded to a halt in time to avoid crashing straight into it. 

“Shit.” he dodged as the gundark’s larger forelimb, as thick around as his torso, smashed into the ground he just vacated, sending shudders through the walls and dust falling from the ceiling. The gundark turned, eyes flashing an angry gold, and grabbed at him with a monstrous claw.

He leapt back, sliding his lightsaber across leathery flesh. The gundark roared, and the smell of singed flesh filled the narrow hallway, but it drew back in time to prevent the loss of its claw. Anakin almost grinned, perhaps the beast would be a bit of a challenge, and then his back hit unexpected stone.

“Karking shit.” The next moment, a claw slammed him into the wall, hard enough for him to see stars bursting in the dark behind his eyes. Fortunately, Anakin was no stranger to head injuries, and he instinctively rolled as he hit the ground, feeling the thud of something heavy hitting the ground where he would have landed.

He used the momentum and a bit of Force to push himself to his feet again, holding his lightsaber in front of him, careful of the narrow walls. The shadows flickered wildly as he jabbed at the gundark, and the Force was singing in his ears, sending a tingling feeling down his arms. The gundark retreated, wary of the dancing crimson blade. Anakin grinned, tasting copper and feeling the familiar rush of battle. Perhaps the gundark would be a bit of a challenge after all. And though it smelled terrible, he was sure it was nothing a good roasting couldn’t fix.

“Vader, to your right!” Kenobi shouted, just as Anakin realized what the Force was trying to tell him.

A second adult gundark, slightly smaller, roared out of the darkness, razor-sharp teeth aiming for his face. It was only his Force-sense and instinct that saved him, as he raised his right arm, his lightsaber arm, to block the attack. The weight of the gundark bore him to the ground. Teeth closed around the metal, wires broke and sparked, and his lightsaber tumbled to the ground, and went out, plunging the cave into interminable darkness. He cursed himself for underestimating the dumb beasts, which apparently were not so dumb after all.

The second gundark worried at his arm, jerking him back and forth—thankfully the tactile sensors had already gone or he’d be very uncomfortable now—and he cut his losses, detaching the arm quickly, leaving only the socket melded to his flesh and the exposed electrodes.

“Vader!” he heard Kenobi shout from somewhere in the dark.

“Find a kriffing exit!” he said, shoving a foot against the gundark’s mouth and summoning the Force. A push, and the gundark flew off him, slamming into the first gundark, and sending both tumbling to the ground. The baby gundark shrieked again, high and eerie in the dark. Karking little bastard.

He staggered to his feet, panting.

A hiss of plasma sounded and then he could see Kenobi’s worried face illuminated red by the lightsaber. He looked relieved to see Anakin, which was a pleasant surprise. Not that Anakin would have expected Kenobi to leave him to die—Jedi were too noble for that.

“I think there might be one that way,” Kenobi said, dragging Anakin by the wrist of his flesh hand, towards another corridor, split off from the one they’d arrived from, “Are you ok?”

“Nothing too bad, just down a hand,” Anakin said cheerfully, at Kenobi’s look of horror, he added, “I don’t think it liked the taste of durasteel though.”

“Vader you--”

The gundarks roared again, drawing echoes in the stone halls of the cave so that it seemed like there was an army of the things chasing after them.

“This way,” Kenobi said, dragging Anakin down another corridor at a dead run. Following, he guessed, the large, wet footprints that glistened in the faint light of Anakin’s saber.

Speaking of which, “I want that back,” he said.

“What are you going to hold it with, your teeth?”

“I have another perfectly functional—”

“Go!” Kenobi shoved him forward, and he saw, in the darkness ahead, a glint of light, and heard the sound of rain pounding on stone. An exit. Freedom.

Anakin stumbled forward a few feet, and turned, angry words on his tongue, but he swallowed them as a gundark flew down from the dark, like an angry spirit, and Kenobi neatly dodged and lopped off an ear with the borrowed lightsaber. His eyes were closed, having decided that Force-sense alone was better than the dancing shadows that the lightsaber cast, turning everything into confusing shapes and movement.

The gundark drew back and screamed in pain and anger, and Kenobi retreated, even as he kept a defensive stance.

“I thought I told you to go!” Kenobi shouted.

Anakin grit his teeth and ran for the exit. He wasn’t fleeing, just regrouping. He was not much use down unarmed and down one hand anyways. A glance back over his shoulder, and Kenobi was weaving between the two gundarks like a leaf flying between the gale winds of a storm, never stopping but never touching. His face was furrowed in concentration, and he danced on light feet, flowing with the unseen currents of the Force in a way Anakin had never been able to feel, looking at peace, despite the giant stamping gundarks trying to crush him like a gnat.

Anakin was struck suddenly with the thought of how it might feel to be on the other side of that focus, to be the shore against which the current of his dance might break, the power behind that impeccable control, just waiting to overrun the banks, overwhelm him. Like holding back a flood with a bag of sand.

Anakin’s heart pounded, and the gundarks howled again, drawing his attention back to the present. Right. Escape. He turned, and ran for the exit. 

The entrance of the cave was slick with rain, and blessedly open to the air. To one side, the ground ended in a cliff overlooking the forest and the valley. On the other side, a thin road ran down from the mouth of the cave at a slow decline, switchbacking down the steep mountainside. By the entrance, he saw the two cracked and broken stone slabs that might have once been doors to a temple, leaning against each other on the ground. He looked back again, to see Kenobi still as far as he’d been, still engaged in the deadly dance.

But the dance couldn’t last forever. Kenobi stumbled, hand flying to his head, and Anakin remembered suddenly the head injury. Kark. The larger gundark saw the opening and lunged forward, claws out. Kenobi recovered, ducked and rolled underneath the gundark’s legs, swiping the lightsaber across the beast’s leg, and leapt nimbly out of the way, back into step again. But he was no closer to the exit than before, no closer to escape. The gundarks crowded him back into the dark, even as they kept just out of the lightsaber’s reach.

Anakin hesitated. He could just go, leave the Jedi to his most likely death at the claws of the gundarks. What was a saber and a mech hand compared to the life of a sworn enemy of the Sith? Sidious would be pleased, and it would be an end to the meddling.

No. He had to get his saber back. It had saved his life before, and would be an asset in his future endeavors. Yes, he had to go back. For his lightsaber.

He stood in the rain, reaching his hand out, and summoned the Force, pushing every last shred of anger and pain and fear—kriffing gundarks, how dare they bite his kriffing hand off, did they know how long it took him to calibrate the servos, and kriffing Jedi, taking his lightsaber and being so karking slow, outsmarted by dumb beasts.

One of the massive stone doors levitated off the ground, spinning slowly in the air. Sweat mixed with rain as he concentrated.

“Kenobi!” he roared, “duck!”

To his credit, Kenobi threw himself down without a moment of hesitation. A gundark leapt, teeth bared to bite, and got a face full of five tons of broken stone architecture. It flew back into the dark with a pained rattle, followed by a dull, ground-shaking thud, and the second gundark, which had only caught a glancing blow, bounced off a wall with a bone-crunching crack.

Kenobi lifted his head, staring down into the shadows of the cave, frozen.

“Get your ass over here, Kenobi!” Anakin said, breathing heavily. Force it felt like he’d just lifted a mynock with his bare hands.

Kenobi vaulted to his feet and ran over.

“Vader, are you okay?” He asked, looking like he actually cared. His eyes kept darting towards the empty socket of Anakin’s right arm, exposed electrodes sparking in the rain. “Your hand…”

“I’m just peachy,” Anakin said, “now give that back.” He held his remaining flesh hand out for the lightsaber.

Kenobi lifted it and, just as he was about to hand it back, froze again.

“Kenobi…” Anakin growled.

“Ah, you know, I just remembered another fun fact about gundarks,” Kenobi said, looking past him, “They live in large clans of several family units that go out hunting together.”

A chorus of howls rose from all sides, and Anakin was suddenly aware of the warning of impending danger in the Force, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Karking son-of-a-bantha-fodder,” he spat.

Down the winding road leading to the old temple entrance, a stampede of heavy footfalls was rising up to meet them, with a multitude of glowing yellow eyes, treetrunk limbs covered in coarse black fur, and sharp, bared teeth. A veritable army of gundarks, headed straight towards them.

“For what it’s worth,” Kenobi said, smiling tremulously, “It was not terrible knowing you.”

“Kark that,” Anakin said, because if there was anything he’d learned under Sidious’ tyrannical rule, it was how to never give the enemy the satisfaction of an easy victory. If you lose, you lose trying to claw the enemy’s eyes out with your thumbs.

“Hold on,” he said, grabbing his lightsaber and sliding it onto his belt. Like hell he’d lose it again after all the trouble he went through to save it. Then, he fisted his good hand around Kenobi’s collar and ran straight for the edge of the cliff.

For a moment after his foot pushed off the last bit of solid ground, they hung weightless as the moment before a hyperspace jump, when all the ship’s power went towards the shift out of realspace, the artificial gravity loosened its hold on flesh, and everything felt light and infinitely possible.

Rain pelted his face, washing away the sweat and fear. The wind howled, mixing with rumbling thunder, the futile growls of the gundarks, and the rising crescendo of blood rushing in his ears. He found that he was laughing, face split in a wild grin as if he were trying to swallow the storm itself.

Kenobi clutched at his waist and screamed.

And then, they fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise cliffhanger!
> 
> I hope you're all staying sane and safe in these times.
> 
> As for the fic: I do have a lot of stuff written, but none of it is in order. Therefore, it depends a bit on how fast I can write (which is not very), but the tentative posting schedule is approximately once a month for this fic.
> 
> Also I am now on tumblr @berrymascarpone. Find me there if you want to chat.


	4. An Adventure or Three (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, I made some tiny edits to previous chapters, mostly to add in the location/timestamps.
> 
> Anyways here's the other half of their adventure.

_Wild Space, 8 years before the Chosen One_

“Come on,” Anakin said, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“ _Wasn’t that bad_?” Kenobi said from where he huddled by the base of the broad-leafed tree they’d made into a shelter of sorts, “It was _suicide_!”

“Obviously not, since we lived.” Anakin said, feeling odd to be the reasonable one in the group. He didn’t like it at all.

“That point is quite debatable.” Kenobi groaned.

Anakin rolled his eyes. A few bounces off the tree canopy and a crash into a muddy puddle, and the Jedi was acting like he’d lost a leg instead of gained a few bruises.

“Would you rather have been eaten by gundarks? Don’t be so dramatic. Look, I even found dinner,” he said, offering the Jedi a lizard-creature on a stick. He’d found several of the small native reptiles in the surrounding forest, peeking out of their hiding places to splash in the puddles left by the rainstorm. They were easy to catch one handed, small enough to roast with his lightsaber, and smelled rather like roast chicken.

Kenobi peeked out of the huddle of his arms and narrowed his eyes at the lizard thing.

“Are you sure that’s edible?”

Anakin shrugged, “No clue.”

Kenobi sighed but accepted it anyways, though he looked at it with distaste. He sniffed at it delicately and began to look less suspicious and more hungry. Anakin had a sudden thought.

“You do know how to filter poisons with the Force, don’t you?” Just in case. He didn’t want to watch the Jedi choke in front of him was all. It would ruin his appetite.

“One does not travel the galaxy with Qui-Gon Jinn and not learn how to filter toxins from their system,” Kenobi said, reassuring. “He’s my old Master.” He added on seeing Anakin’s confused expression.

Ah, that Anakin understood. He put on a sympathetic face, “Surprise poison resistance training?” He said, “that’s the worst. Especially neurotoxins, those give me tingles in my extremities for weeks.”

Sidious had the habit of sneaking nasty Sith poisons into his apprentices’ meals when they were younger and more trusting, and they’d had a few close calls before they started cooking for themselves in the commissary. Not that it had improved the dining experience, but afterwards the only toxins he had to worry about were the ones that were supposed to be there.

Kenobi glanced up, startled. “What—no! He was just terrible at cooking. And he had the unfortunate habit of trying out native plants before knowing their edibility,” he was looking at Anakin strangely again, that stupid look like he’d just seen a kicked loth-kitten. Anakin felt his stomach clench.

“If you don’t like my cooking you can go hunt your own dinner,” he said, turning away.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re a perfectly adequate cook, so long as there is no Tatooine chili-powder involved.”

“If only,” he sighed. He'd left the last of the chili-powder on his ship. The locals were probably eating it all right now as they spoke. He would definitely have to go back and burn down their village, as soon as the Jedi turned his back.

Kenobi did not reply, but nibbled at the lizard’s side. Anakin, in a fit of pique, bit the head off his lizard and crunched it loudly, relishing the scrunched look of disgust Kenobi sent at him. They ate in silence for a while, and really, the lizard-on-a-stick wasn’t so bad. Better than shyrak stew, and tentatively not poisonous.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Kenobi said, begrudgingly.

“Please don’t, I just ate.”

Kenobi sent him a half-hearted glare at the comment. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll just say we’re even then. No one owes anything to anyone else, and once we’re off this planet, we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Fair enough,” Anakin said. It wasn’t like he wanted to dwell on the fact that he’d been saved by a Jedi with his own lightsaber. Asajj and Maul would never let him hear the end of that. Better that it never leave this backwater planet.

“Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to have a plan to get off this planet, would you?” Kenobi asked, “Last I saw of my ship, the natives were, uh, setting it on fire.”

Anakin snorted, then sobered. “I’m pretty sure they did that with mine too.”

They lapsed into another moment of silence. Then, “Though I still have my commlink. There might be an...ally I could call.”

“Oh?” Kenobi looked intrigued, “I didn’t realize you had any friends.”

“She’s not a friend,” Anakin snapped, “She’s an ally. A useful ally, as it turns out.”

“Right,” Kenobi said, though he had his eyebrow raised infuriatingly.

Anakin ground his teeth. “See if I tell her to bring you along.”

Kenobi scowled, “Unlike some, I am capable of making friends on my own.”

“You? Friends? And they weren’t driven off by your sanctimonious lecturing of the many ways they’ve been straying from the Light?”

“Very funny, Vader. At least I’m not ashamed to admit that they’re friends.”

“Only the weak need friends,” Anakin said, anger flaring. He did not care if Padme thought of him as a friend. Really. And neither did he care what the Jedi thought about his _alliance_ with Padme.

Kenobi frowned, something inscrutable flitting across his face, “On the contrary, I believe friends can be a great source of strength, if you allow them.”

Anakin did not want to have this conversation. Of course the Jedi would think that bonds would strengthen rather than hold you down. A friend was just another source of pain, in the right hands, and Anakin had had enough of pain.

“Whatever,” he said, and threw his stick with the remains of the lizard into the trees with more force than necessary. “Agree to disagree.”

Kenobi huffed, “That is as close as we’ll get to a compromise, I suppose.”

===

Padme’s ship descended on the clearing, sleek and silver. For a handmaiden, she had quite the ride, but perhaps handmaiden was a prominent position on Naboo. Anakin was just glad to be out of the dampness that had sunk deep into his bones, and the bug swarms, and the stinking mud. He hoped she had good food on her ship, because even he was getting tired of the lizard-creatures after a week of eating nothing else.

At least he had been entertained by Kenobi’s fumbling efforts to catch the lizard-creatures bare-handed in the mud, then by his glare as Anakin effortlessly lifted just as many with the Force. The Jedi had muttered something about misuse of the Force, but Anakin had argued that perhaps it was the will of the Force they didn’t starve. Kenobi had settled, albeit with a bit more grumbling, and even helped Anakin clean and grill the lizards with Anakin’s lightsaber. Anakin had conveniently ignored how close his ‘saber’s plasma blade had been to Kenobi’s vulnerable neck, how easy it would have been to sever an arm or more with a twitch of his wrist, and held very still as Kenobi prattled on about the best ways to tell which herbs and grasses could be used to season meat without poisoning them.

The whole situation sat strangely in his stomach (or was that the excess of lizard-creatures?). They didn’t trust each other, not quite. Kenobi still meditated at night instead of falling into a proper sleep, but somehow, after the first tense night, they had managed to fall into a routine. They staggered their rests, with one of them up to keep watch against gundarks and angry natives (Anakin was quite good at sleeping with one eye open, in case Maul or Tyranus attempted an assassination attempt. It was the other things that kept him up. Like the mud, or the smell). In the morning, Kenobi would catch and clean more lizards while Anakin levitated a sphere of water from a nearby creek and decontaminated it by running his saber through it until the water steamed and boiled. Kenobi would skewer the lizards and hand them to Anakin for cooking, putter off to find some tree bark that he said made a great tea, and steep it in his half of the water, and they would drink and eat, like they weren’t sworn enemies in an uneasy truce.

And because there was absolutely kriff-all to do while waiting for Padme’s ship to arrive at last, and Kenobi seemed to lack Anakin’s skill of brooding in silence, he found himself listening to treatises on the difference between two obscure Jedi philosophers older than sentient life on the planet they were on, or the differences between Old-Republic era texts from different sectors, or the best way to preserve teachings to prevent language degradation and loss of meaning.

And when Anakin was almost ready to disregard their unspoken truce and strangle a Jedi, he talked.

He didn’t talk about any of the other Sith apprentices, or Feral, or Sidious, or his mission to bring the galaxy to Darkness, because that was a box of venom mites better left unopened. Instead, he talked about other things, how disgusting shyrak stew was, the seafood feasts of Naboo, the heat-and-spice of Tatooine.

And, on a particularly long night, when the sky was clear enough to see the stars, and his brain just tired enough to ignore the thoughts that it was a bad idea, he talked about things from before. Before Moraband and Sidious with his honeyed lies about power and freedom and potential.

“What do you think that system is like?” He asked, pointing towards a particularly bright star in the sky.

Kenobi squinted, “The Shothian nebula? My Master and I traveled there once, to see some old Jedi ruins.” He smiled, wistful, into the dark, “The locals are isolated but hospitable to guests. They are buffeted by regular solar storms that keep out most visitors, and dim the light of their sun, but their night sky is amazing. They have a close up view of the nebula, and it paints their sky with light. The birth of a new star, though it takes much longer than any of our lifetimes, is transcendent. The Force there _sings_ potential, like kyber in your veins, and I have not heard it’s like anywhere else in the galaxy.”

Anakin stared at the bright point. He knew that nebulae were not just the primordial remains of dying supernovas, but also the birthplace of new stars. They were death and life all rolled up into one mass of gas and dust, light years across, messy and grey and full of hope and despair. He wondered what it would feel like to him, the death of an old star, or the birth of a new one. The Force was silent to his musings. Perhaps he should go there next, to see if the Shothians were amenable to embracing the Dark.

“I wonder what kinds of food they have there,” he said instead.

“Only you, Vader,” Kenobi sighed, but it lacked the usual heat.

“I used to dream about going to all the planets,” Anakin said, abruptly, “I wanted to be a pilot before—well, before. I used to count the stars and make up different stories about what the planets were like. Climates and foods and cities. And histories of their civilizations, all the heroes and kings and adventures.”

Kenobi was silent.

“It was all banthashit,” Anakin added, the taste of bitter dust on his tongue.

“Well,” Kenobi said, lightly, “it isn’t like we have anything important to discuss. Do tell, what kind of stories do they tell to baby Sith?”

“Haha,” Anakin said, tonelessly, trying not to imagine Sidious with an actual infant, “Not stories from the Sith. Before.” He had to have been around nine when Sidious came, not that he knew for sure--they didn’t keep track of that kind of thing for slaves on Tatooine.

Kenobi was quiet again, and Anakin, his mouth still too loosened by the lack of sleep, and the strange tension that was building like a sandstorm under his skin, continued “My mom was the only one I told. It was a sort of game for us, concocting tales about the stars. Never thought I’d get a chance to actually go.”

The admission stirred an old sense-memory, buried under the years like the foundations of an old house covered by the sand: a calm desert night, warm arms around him to keep out the cold, a quiet voice in his ear and a callused finger pointing at the stars and telling stories about each of them, fantastical and magical. Brave knights with laser swords fighting giant dragons and rescuing princesses. Armies marching on cities, led by glorious kings and queens, bringing freedom to all they touched, waving banners of blazing flame across the sky. Complete banthashit, like he’d said, but Kenobi listened, quite content to silence except to comment occasionally on the similarities with folklores in other systems.

The swamp, for all its faults and itches, reminded Anakin of other times, like dinner on Moraband, when Feral was in charge of the cooking, and all the Sith apprentices were all still on civil speaking terms with each other, exchanging snippets of half-forgotten memories of Before like precious currency. It was almost domestic, as much as an improvised camp in a swamp could be domestic, and it stirred up the silt of old memories better left undisturbed. Anakin felt himself relaxing at nights, almost calm enough to sleep, even with the insistent itch of the Light at his back. He did not think about what that meant.

Fortunately, now that Padme had arrived, he wouldn’t have to stew in his thoughts any longer.

“Lord Vader!” Padme descended the ramp of the ship. She looked older than when he’d last seen her, no longer the round-faced young girl he remembered—a reminder of her status as a non-Force-sensitive, who aged much faster. Though they’d kept up contact through comm messages (you never knew when you needed an ally, he’d reasoned as he reviewed the cuisine of the Barsa sector to her amusement), they hadn’t exchanged holocalls quite as often. “Are you alright?” she said.

“Lord Vader?” Kenobi mouthed, sending him an incredulous look.

“Handmaiden Padme,” he said, with a bow that might have looked regal had he been less covered in mud and insect bites, and had he not been sending a smug smile towards Kenobi as he bowed, “It’s great to see you again.”

“No need for such formalities,” Padme said, hiding a demure smile, “I’m not here in an official capacity.” She turned to Kenobi, “And you must be the other friend Vader mentioned in his call.”

Kenobi’s incredulity rose with his eyebrows, but when he turned to Padme his face was the epitome of serenity. After a week out in the woods his beard was beginning to take on a bit of a ragged edge, though Anakin had caught him trying to brush it with a pinecone earlier. But somehow, he looked as if he had meant to be mud-smudged and ragged, an ascetic in his natural habitat. “Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he said with an equally formal bow, “At your service.”

“Wait a minute, I never said he was my friend!” Anakin spluttered, “We’re enemies!”

“Of course you are,” Padme said, reassuringly, before turning back to Kenobi and asking, “I assume you would like passage off the planet as well?”

“I would be most grateful,” Kenobi said with another bow.

To Anakin’s horror, Padme looked delighted, “Oh, of course.” she said, “Anything for an...acquaintance of Vader’s.”

“Enemy!” Anakin corrected.

Padme opened her mouth to say something about being polite no doubt, and then caught sight of Anakin’s arm. “Your hand!” she gasped, “Oh, I thought you said you were fine!”

Anakin raised his socket, “I’ll probably need a new one, but don’t worry. I’ll build it much better than that old piece of junk I used before.”

“Fear not, Lady Padme,” Kenobi said, “His most important assets are intact. For example, his unbridled ego.”

“Hey!” Anakin said, “My ego is nothing compared to your atrocious sense of fashion.”

“Oh yes, my robes are so much worse than your imitation of an eopie that’s fallen into a mud pit!”

Anakin bristled. His outfit was the peak of galactic fashion, and anyone who disagreed was either idiotic or several centuries out of date. His angry reply was cut short by Padme’s laugh. “You really are quite the pair of friends,” she said.

“We’re not friends,” Anakin said. He didn’t have friends. He couldn’t, he was a Sith. He looked at Kenobi beseechingly, “Tell her we’re not!”

Kenobi stayed infuriatingly silent, though he was looking quite intensely at the treeline. Of course he chose the moment it was convenient for him to pretend that they were anything but enemies.

“Well, come on,” Padme said, leading the way onto the ship, “I don’t want to stay on this planet a minute longer than necessary, especially after hearing what they do to visitors.”

“I am glad to see that Vader has at least one sensible friend,” Kenobi said, following her.

“She’s an ally,” Anakin said, taking up the rear.

“Welcome aboard my ship,” Padme pretended not to hear Anakin at all, “I would show you to your cabins, but I must insist that you use the ‘fresher first.”

===

_Alderaan, 8 years before the Chosen One_

Padme was accommodating enough to drop him off on Alderaan before she and Vader went back to Naboo to get him a new mechanical hand. She was a nice young woman, he thought, with a good head for politics and more appreciative of good tea and historical architecture than certain Sith Lords he could name. As far as he could tell, she was not at all under Vader’s control, if the way they’d bickered like siblings was any indication. And though she hadn’t responded positively to his tentative inquiries about Naboo potentially allying with the Jedi either, her refusal had been both diplomatic and irrefutable, and inspired more admiration than disappointment.

Obi-Wan was starting to wonder if the Jedi were not as respected or remembered in the wider galaxy. It hadn’t been much of an issue when he’d been traveling with Qui-Gon; they’d been trying to hide their Jedi status then, to avoid attracting unwanted attention. But now that the Jedi were planning to come back to save the galaxy, he was starting to wonder if the galaxy would remember enough to welcome them when the time came.

Even his friend Bail, who he’d met that time Vader had tried to divert him to another planet (and he would not fall for that trick a second time), had seemed skeptical of the Jedi Order’s claims of an upcoming war against the Darkness. The Force was not a well known power in the larger galaxy, and those who remembered it thought it some ancient, strange religion.

Still, Bail had been kind to him then, and now he generously offered his own apartment as a temporary residence as Obi-Wan filled out the forms to requisition more supplies and transportation from the Order. He only hoped that they wouldn’t ask too many questions about why he needed a new lightsaber again.

While he waited for a reply, he found a lovely garden (Alderaan was so full of lovely things like manicured gardens and sprawling forests, and a distinct lack of Sith) and meditated, trying to make sense of his thoughts.

Vader was not what he expected a Sith to be. From the Jedi teachings, and from reading historical accounts of the Sith Wars, he expected the enemy to be more...menacing. Not that Vader was not powerful—the last encounter with the gundarks proved his Force ability beyond doubt. But afterwards, while they camped out in the swamp, he had been almost amicable. Or as amicable as a Sith could be, which meant he hadn’t tried to cut off any limbs and kept his threats to the less graphic side of the scale. There had been many instances where Vader had a chance to strike, when Obi-Wan had tentatively let down his defenses, but he had kept up their unofficial, unspoken routine, and had even revealed more about himself than he likely intended.

He’d spoken of a mother, and dreams of flying to all the planets and moons in the galaxy. Obi-Wan had thought Sith dreamed of conquest and domination, but Vader had sounded wistful as he’d spoken of the stars, and his life before the Sith.

Before the Sith. The thought was strange, and sloshed uneasily through his mind like a mouthful of swamp water. Logically, he knew that even Sith must have mothers, instead of bursting from the ground fully grown and ready to do evil. But the way Anakin spoke of his mother was fond, as if he’d been old enough to remember her, old enough to care. Somehow, that thought stuck in his mind, hooking into his thoughts.

Obi-Wan couldn’t remember much of his own mother; he’d been found by the Jedi too young to form lasting memories, but he’d always had the Jedi as a family, Master Qui-Gon and Bant and Garen and Reeft, and all the other brothers and sisters in the Order. He wondered if Sith had similar bonds within their order. He doubted it, based on Vader’s disdain for friends, the way he spoke of weakness in friendship.

And yet Vader had one friend in Padme Amidala (and he recognized that she was a friend despite all Vader’s protests), a nice young woman from Naboo who hadn’t had her mind crushed into servitude, whose friendship was not coerced and who could tease him casually with him without his rage or anger. Vader, it seemed, might not be the irredeemably evil Sith he’d imagined.

The seed of an idea was growing in Obi-Wan’s mind like a rebel weed. A patently ridiculous idea, and he really shouldn’t give it any fuel. But perhaps, if the Sith were not born to the Darkness, then they were not bound to it forever.

Perhaps, if Vader could have a friend, could dream of exploration rather than conquest, there was a chance he could be convinced to...turn.

The idea of mercy for the Sith was anathema, blasphemy, against all that the Jedi taught about the Dark side. Once touched by the dark, a soul is forever tainted, even Master Yoda agreed on this. But tainted did not mean lost. Obi-Wan still had hope, and perhaps, if the Jedi could be convinced, he would not have to eliminate Vader.

As if hearing his blasphemous thoughts, his comm buzzed, making him jump. He checked the caller, and suppressed a groan.

Mace Windu was a friend, more Qui-Gon’s than his, but after Qui-Gon’s departure, Mace had taken Obi-Wan under his wing, defended him against the whispers of his unsuitability for Knighthood, and later the status of Master that he’d earned through work in the Archives.

“Master Windu,” Obi-Wan bowed politely to the glowing blue hologram of the Head of the Jedi Order, hands in his robes and thoughts of Vader pushed to the back of his mind. He knew that guilt couldn’t be transmitted through the commlink, but Mace could read his face as easily as an introductory text for crechelings.

“Master Kenobi,” Mace Windu greeted with a corresponding bow, “I am glad to see you are well. We’ve received your latest report and requisition request.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan felt his face heat, “Yes. I’d hoped it might be processed soon?”

Mace sighed. “Another one, Obi-Wan? We do not have an unlimited supply of lightsabers, despite what you seem to think.”

“The circumstances were extenuating,” Obi-Wan protested, “I was fighting a Sith.”

“A Sith?” Mace looked at him sharply, “You’ve met the Sith again?”

“Er, yes. In a manner of speaking. Unfortunately, I’ve lost him again as well, but not to worry, I have a clue to his whereabouts.”

“Good,” Mace said, nodding, “You are to track him down and eliminate him.”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath.

“What is it, Kenobi?” Mace said, resigned.

Obi-Wan hesitated. It was a bad idea, he knew, but Mace was the one person on the council he could trust with this. Mace had listened to Qui-Gon’s criticisms against the council with nothing more than a non-committal grunt, and never once condemned him before the council.

“It seems such a shame to just...eliminate a fellow Force-user,” Obi-Wan said, “What would the council’s stance be on...ah, trying to convert the Sith to the Light?”

Mace was silent, face still as if it had been frozen in carbonite, except for the occasional disruptions of the comm signal throwing ripples across his blue holo-form. Obi-Wan’s heart leapt into his throat. It had been a terrible gamble, and now he’d be thrown out and have to go live as a hermit on some long forgotten planet, with nothing to read except the latest lurid news articles on his datapad—

“I am going to pretend that I didn’t hear that,” Mace said at last.

Obi-Wan felt his hands unclench. He bowed his head, contrite. “Of course, I only meant—“

“Obi-Wan,” Mace interrupted, managing somehow to be both disappointed and severe as a winter storm, “I know you are familiar with the Order’s teachings. The Dark is not something one can recover from. And any attempts to understand the dark will only lead to tragedy. We have seen this before, in Dooku.”

Obi-Wan winced at the reference to his master’s master, and nodded, “I understand.”

“Master Yoda has a soft spot for his great-grand padawan,” Mace said, in a more tempered tone, “and I remember Qui-Gon fondly, for all his dissatisfaction. But there are others in the Order who remember your lineage less fondly. They are the ones who might interpret such a statement as...more than just inexperience.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth went dry, “I am loyal to the Jedi,” he said, a sudden anxious worry that sent his heart sinking towards his knees.

Mace sighed, “I know that, Obi-Wan. I do remember how you were the one to temper Qui-Gon’s more extreme interpretations of the Code. You won’t leave the Jedi as they did. I am sure of that.”

“I—Thank you,” he drew in a slow breath. Mace’s faith in him was more welcome than he expected, and he was grateful for it, “It was not enough for him to stay, however.”

“There are those who remember that fact,” Made said, with a dip of his head, “And the fact that your Master, and his before, have both left the Jedi. That is why you must show them that the Sith is not influencing you away from the Jedi path.”

“The Order is my home,” Obi-Wan said, vehemently, “I would not abandon the only family I have!”

“Or course, Obi-Wan,” Mace said, “You are a brother to me. But remember that all we do is for the Light.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said, but the sinking feeling was back in his chest, pressing on his lungs, “For the good of his galaxy.”

Mace inclined his head, a bow, “I am glad to hear that, my friend. You know what you must do, so do not disappoint. May the Force be with you.”

“And you, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan said, bowing in return.

Mace’s blue form flickered and disappeared as the holocall ended. Obi-Wan slumped down to the bench, and rubbed at his temple. This was not ideal. He had not mentioned half the things Vader had done—or rather, that Obi-Wan himself had done with Vader. The temporary truces and that strange stretch of time stranded on the hostile planet.

He sighed, all his meditative calm gone.

He would have to get rid of these thoughts. Trying to understand the Dark side of the Force was indeed a mistake. The council would not be swayed on that point. But, on the other hand, Vader had not felt Dark back then, when he’d talked about his life before. Technically, Obi-Wan was not trying to understand the Dark, but rather the person before the dark had come in and buried all the light. The boy who looked at the stars and dreamed of heroes and freedom.

Perhaps if he managed to turn Vader successfully, the Jedi council would have to acknowledge that it was possible that the Dark could be overcome in ways other than eradication. Then he would not have to kill the boy with the Sith.

He let out a long breath, and nodded, mind set despite the warnings. Mace might not approve, exactly, but neither would he turn Obi-Wan over to the council. He had an opportunity, a chance to turn the whole structure of the war, possibly prevent it altogether. And he would, of course, inform the council. Afterwards. Master Qui-Gon had always taught him the importance of asking forgiveness later.


	5. Misadventure Loves Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this story managed to turn into a strange anthology of the various misadventures of Obi-Wan and Anakin. I’m not sure how to make it stop.

In one of the strange twists of fate, it seemed that as soon as he decided to try and help the wayward Sith lord, Vader stopped appearing in his life. Perhaps fitting a new hand took longer than expected. Perhaps Naboo held more to interest him, or he preferred to take some time off of his Sith duties to spend with his friend (no matter how hard he denied it), Padme. Obi-Wan had a flash of worry for the young woman, but she seemed confident enough (and willing enough to put a blaster bolt wherever necessary), and had no misconceptions about what Vader was.

Still, as the days dragged on with no particular pull one way or the other in the force, his curiosity flared. He sent a comm message to Satine, asking if she had any recommendations for mechanical hands. Just something he could pass on to Padme. For reasons.

“Asking for Vader?” She’d written back, “He came through here earlier, with a nice young lady, but he didn’t seem satisfied with any of the mechanical hand models we had. Preferred to build his own instead.”

“I was just curious,” Obi-Wan had replied, slightly miffed at the immediate assumption of his intention, “This has nothing at all to do with Vader. I’m not concerned about him at all. In fact, I’m glad he hasn’t been causing any trouble for me lately.” But he wondered if Vader had always built his own mech hands, and the difficulties of doing so with only one working hand.

After a long pause, during which Obi-Wan wondered if she’d forgotten about his message, his comm buzzed again with her reply.

“I forgot you were in fact mortal enemies.” Satine wrote, “But even though you probably don’t care, I will inform you that he seemed fine, and had a few suggestions for our own mechanical engineers about the finer points of servo calibration and neurointerfacing. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon to give you something to do.”

Obi-Wan let that comment go, because Satine couldn’t possibly understand the rivalry between Jedi and Sith. He was...not displeased to hear that Vader was making progress. And keeping out of trouble, regardless of how that delayed his own plans.

Obi-Wan was patient, though. He could wait until the Force brought their paths together again.

In the meantime, he spent a relaxing amount of time in the Alderaan historical archives (one of the best maintained in the galaxy, and they even used a logical filing system), and reading old data pads among the gardens. He had tea with Bail and his fiancé Breda, and Alderaanian sweetcrust pastries filled with tart local fruits along the riverbanks (and did not think about how Vader might have liked them). And when he grew tired of that, he took a trip to the neighboring system to wander through the ruins of an ancient civilization that wrote its history on its walls, and carved the most wonderful statuary of mythical beasts and legends. He made an appointment at the great library of Corellia, where he found another collection of ancient Jedi texts he’d only seen referenced in the temple’s archives, and spent nearly a week poring over them until the librarians finally removed him none to gently, citing concern for his health and mental wellbeing, and told him not to return until he’d showered and eaten something.

It was quite a nice break from the usual attempts to stop Vader’s plans, or recruit planetary leaders to the Light for their own good. When he’d traveled the galaxy with Master Qui-Gon, they hadn’t spent much time simply enjoying it. Instead, Qui-Gon had always had an air of purpose to his travels, a frantic, searching energy that led them to seedy bars and planetary conflicts rife with greed and corruption, and landed them in more messes than he could count. Back then, Obi-Wan had seen that the galaxy was full of darkness and selfishness, the people in dire need of the Light, and he knew even more strongly that the Jedi so far away in their temple represented a final bastion of hope. But now, he thought perhaps there was enough good out here for him to rest a bit.

He thought he might even enjoy his trip out in the galaxy this time around.

That was, until the pirates.

===

_Florrum, 7 years before the birth of the Chosen One_

The door to the cell slammed open, and the pirates unceremoniously pushed another body through. Obi-Wan looked up from where he was fiddling with the electrocuffs around his wrists and nearly let out a long sigh. Of course.

“You!”

“Ah, Vader, what a delight.” Obi-Wan said dryly, as the Sith sat up from where he’d fallen. They had been bumping into each other for so long now, he was sure the Force had a hand in it somehow. Vader’s hands were similarly cuffed in front of him, and his glare could have melted durasteel, and he looked like he’d been dredged through the Florrum dust (while being captured or beforehand, Obi-Wan didn’t care to speculate). Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow in sympathy as he took in Vader’s bedraggled state, “You too?”

“Don’t.” Vader growled, “say. A word.” He picked himself up off the ground and then slammed himself against the locked door, which rattled but remained shut.

“No, no,” Obi-Wan said, wincing at the noise, “I completely understand. Anyone would be drawn in by their insidious lies and temptations.”

“Did they tell you there was a cache of ancient artifacts?” Vader asked. He glanced over and paused at Obi-Wan’s uncharacteristically dark scowl.

“They said they had a copy of _Mechanisms of Midichlorian-Mediated Force Sensitivity: Theories and Unknowns_ by the great master Czax Ban.” Obi-Wan said, lips pressed thin, “that is not a thing one _lies_ about.”

“Ah.” Vader said, staring at him incredulously, “Did they actually say that they had Master What’s-his-face’s work?”

“Well, I told them upfront that unless it was a copy of the revered Master Ban’s work, I wasn’t interested.”

“Of course you did,” Vader said, with a roll of his eyes. But he had at least stopped throwing himself at the door. He stood and began pacing the three steps it took to walk from one wall of the cell to the other, like a trapped nexu in its cage.

“I expect it only took an All-You-Can-Eat-Space-Shrimp advert to entice you,” Obi-Wan said, snappily. As if there was anything—unbecoming of attempting to preserve the works of the indisputable master on Force Theory.

There was a guilty silence. Vader stopped pacing.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, “Really, Vader?”

“It was a free buffet!” Vader said, face reddening, “I’m not exactly flush with credits! Do you know how much a new starship costs?”

“And I don’t suppose the thought crossed your mind that anything free must be too good to be true?”

“No more than you must have thought about why some pirates just happened to have the exact ancient Jedi text you wanted!”

There was another long silence. Obi-Wan looked intently at the wall, as if he could discern the way out from the cracks in the duracrete.

“The more important question is, how do we escape.” Obi-Wan said at last.

Vader snorted. “I say we just break out of here and kill them.” He made a gesture in the air, mimicking a chokehold.

Obi-Wan frowned, “Unfortunately, our captors seem to have some more sophisticated than usual methods of containment.”

“What?”

Obi-Wan tapped the walls with his knuckles, “Force-suppressing stone. It is quite a bit more difficult to use the Force in this cell, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He felt a stab of sympathy as Vader’s face paled, and then scrunched up in concentration. He had been quite distraught at the realization himself a day ago, but, well, he had a lot of experience with high stress situations (an unforeseen result of his padawan years and one of the reasons he liked the Archives so much, where there was nothing more stressful than Master Nu’s occasional glares when he misfiled a document).

“Karking hells,” Vader swore, as the bars to the door rattled slightly, but otherwise did not bend or crumple.

“Yes, quite,” Obi-Wan sighed, “I don’t think they realize how it works, exactly. These cells are older than this outpost, a relic from the last Great War.” He had heard of the horrors of the Sith Wars, which pitted Force-user against Force-user, and necessitated the development of many methods of Force-suppression. He had seen references in the temple texts, and even a specimen or two kept in the deep vaults of the Ahch-To temple. This one, though it was impossible to tell if it was of Sith or Jedi make, caused a slight headache and inability to grasp the Force.

“Kark!” Vader gave up on attempting to use the Force and kicked the door. It rattled more violently, but didn’t budge. A pirate shouted at them to shut up from the next room over.

“You should conserve your energy,” Obi-Wan said, “If you annoy them they’ll shock you with the cuffs. And I don’t think they’re going to be so nice as to feed us regularly.”

“Speaking from experience?” Vader looked up, eyes narrowed, “How long have you been here anyways?”

Obi-Wan shrugged, “A day or two.” It was difficult to tell the exact time with the absence of windows or clocks, but the pirates changed shifts every few hours, and he could estimate based on that. “I overheard them talking about their plans for us though, and none were pleasant.”

“What plans?”

“Er, just a few potential markets for, ah, specialized goods—”

“They’re slavers,” Vader’s voice was flat. His face had taken on a sickly light, and his eyes were wild as a trapped krayt-dragon, feverish in the dimness of the cell. They were no longer the familiar gold color, now that he was cut off from the Force, and Obi-Wan was startled to see that they were a dark blue.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan winced, remembering Tatooine and Vader’s wild glee as he led the assault on Jabba’s palace. It had, in hindsight, been more personal than a simple desire for chaos. And the way he had spoken of a mother, the warmth and sadness in his face—that had not been the look of one who had wanted to leave his home to join a dark empire preparing to conquer the galaxy. Obi-Wan wondered again if Vader had followed the Sith out of necessity rather than desire to do harm. That would, perhaps, make it easier to convince him to leave that path, if the anger did not first burn him hollow.

Vader swore. Loudly, and with words Obi-Wan had only heard in the most wretched pirates’ dens (where Qui-Gon had visited while liberating supplies for them more often than not).

Obi-Wan could feel Vader straining to reach the Force. Though the cell muted their grasp of it, he could still feel the Force surrounding them, like watching sunlight through a canopy of leaves, able to see the dance without feeling the heat on one’s face. Vader’s face creased in concentration, and he radiated enough frustration to light the proverbial forest on fire.

Obi-Wan hesitated. Vader had not been this nervous when they had been trapped in a cave, or chased by hungry gundarks, but now, in the pirates’ prison cell, he looked far from self-assured. His pacing increased in speed. He was clenching his fists as he paced, the metal hand curling and uncurling, his flesh one turning white with the force of it. In fact, if one overlooked the way he growled under his breath and glared like an angry gundark, Vader looked downright panicked.

Perhaps it was the pirates, the slavers. There were hints of the truth of Vader’s past in the way he had avoided talking about anyone except his mother, how he had carefully stepped around talking about the physical reality of his childhood and only about dreams and aspirations. Perhaps even Sith had things they would rather not remember, remnants of their past that still clung like swamp mud, threatening to drag them back down into the sucking pit they thought they’d escaped.

Obi-Wan felt the urge to go up and soothe the fear away, like comforting a stray animal that Qui-Gon had picked up. He would have thought Qui-Gon's tendency to pick up pathetic life forms had rubbed off on him had Vader not been a Sith, and too angry to be pathetic. In any case, he did not think Vader would react well to any of the soothing touches that Obi-Wan used with the frightened creatures and children Qui-Gon tended to pick up (though he did not doubt Vader would attempt to bite off the offending hand, not unlike some of the more feisty creatures).

But Vader was clearly unhappy with the current circumstances, and Obi-Wan didn’t think the Sith taught ways to deal with frustration that did not involve mass destruction of their surroundings. Seeing that Obi-Wan was a part of the immediate surroundings, he would rather Vader not resort to that method of stress relief.

A delicate matter required a softer touch, as Qui-Gon used to say (often before attempting to talk some loan shark or pirate lord into giving them a starship, or the council into authorizing their next foray off planet. It was no wonder Obi-Wan was so proficient at mind tricks, now that he thought of it). And though this was no angry council meeting, Obi-Wan thought the advice applied well to his current circumstances.

“You know,” he said, with careful nonchalance, “I used to experience quite a bit of anxiety when traveling around with my Master. It was my first time away from the temple, and there was just so many things that wanted to fight or eat us.” He didn’t mention that half of that anxiety was caused by his master and his antics.

Vader swiveled around to glare at him again. “So what?” he said, “I’m not weak and anxious like you.”

Obi-Wan suppressed an exasperated retort. He was trying to help, not further panic the Sith.

“Eventually, my Master noticed and he taught me a quite useful breathing trick,” Obi-Wan said, pretending not to hear the last comment, “Count the heartbeats between your breaths. Six while breathing in, hold for six, and breath out for eight.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and demonstrated, taking a deep breath and counting not his own but Vader’s heartbeat, that rapid fire fluttering on the edge of his awareness. Vader was silent, but Obi-Wan heard him draw in a sharp breath, and hold it.

They released together, a long, slow exhale.

And repeat.

“Is this some sort of Jedi trick?” Vader said, after a moment. His pacing had stopped, and he stood, still stiff in the shoulders but no longer looking as if he would jump out of his skin.

Obi-Wan opened an eye to look at him, “Yes, the very secret Jedi trick of breathing.”

Vader scowled, but his breathing was already falling into a steady, slow rhythm to match Obi-Wan’s own.

“It helps to sit and close your eyes,” Obi-Wan said, after another long, slow breath.

“Fine, your face was distracting me anyways,” Vader said, but obligingly folded down into a sitting position, not quite facing Obi-Wan, and not quite turned away from the door, and closed his eyes.

Only then did Obi-Wan allow himself to smile. Vader was a quick learner.

Vader’s breathing continued to grow slower, deeper. The tension left his shoulders, not completely, but enough that he seemed almost comfortable. Well, as comfortable as a Sith in a Force-inhibiting prison cell. His anger simmered underneath the surface, like a pool of still water hiding the wild undercurrent below, but he was not in danger of boiling over.

Obi-Wan fell back into the familiar rhythms of meditation, reaching out instinctively for the Force. Though it slipped through his grasp like wind through his fingers, he could feel it still as it swirled around him in eddying currents, bleeding into his thoughts, whispering its warnings and soothing comforts. He had spent many hours like this in the past day, reading the intentions of the pirates, looking for an opening in vain. It felt like being a ghost in a full room, able to brush against minds that couldn’t feel him, yet unable to touch them.

Now, though, he could feel the other Force-sensitive in the cell. Vader was a banked fire, dark flames smothered for now, and Obi-Wan felt himself drawn to the heat even as he balked away from the Dark. There was pain there, buried but not healed, with the fresher fuel of frustration and anger on top. But there were also brighter sparks of lighter memories in the anger and hate, glimpses he could almost form into some larger collage: the taste of honey and spice, the scent of a smoky kitchen, a flash of bright laughter. He wanted to tend to the sparks, grow another, brighter flame in the maelstrom of dark. He couldn’t help but reach out for one of them, and there was the sudden insight of storm-grey eyes, soft evening light falling across auburn hair that looked almost—

“What are you doing?” Vader said, suddenly.

Obi-Wan blinked back to the present, opening his eyes. He had gone deeper than he’d intended, and the surfacing was much like waking from a strange dream, walking from the shade into sudden brightness. Vader was staring at him, a complicated look on his face.

“Meditating,” Obi-Wan said, hoping the disorientation he felt would not show on his face, “It’s another one of my crafty Jedi tricks.”

Vader glanced down meaningfully, and Obi-Wan saw that he had, sometime during the meditation, shifted to the side so that his shoulder was pressed against Vader’s back. It wasn’t surprising, in the small cramped space of the cell, but still. He hadn’t meant to get so--close. He straightened, abruptly, feeling the heat rise in his face.

“My apologies,” he muttered, drawing away.

“Don’t get too cozy,” Vader said, turning his face away, “We‘re not friends, and this changes nothing after we escape.”

“Of course not,” Obi-Wan said, "just until we escape."

===

Their chance for escape came when the pirates finally decided to move them.

The door to the cell banged open, halfway through the third shift change, as Obi-Wan was modulating his breath, trying not to fall too deep into meditation again. Vader, for his part, seemed calm. Though his thoughts still raged in his head, it was a controlled storm, compartmentalized and contained. Obi-Wan nearly marveled at how easily Vader seemed to pick up meditation techniques. It gave him hope that perhaps Vader could be rehabilitated, if they could continue with the sessions like this, if he could smother his anger with meditation and the Light side of the Force.

The quiet meditation shattered as two pirates, a Weequay and a human, dressed in space leathers and boots, stalked inside, electrocuff triggers at the ready. Obi-Wan remained still, trying to impress on Vader the prudence of remaining calm without words.

“You’ll make us some good money,” the human pirate said gleefully, hoisting Obi-Wan up by the elbow, “I heard they pay buckets of credits for freaks like you in Vanqor. Train ‘em to do all kinds of freaky shit on command.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Obi-Wan said, calmly as he allowed himself to be manhandled up by the arms.

“Yeah I do,” the pirate said.

“No,” Obi-Wan said, and in that moment, they passed over the invisible boundary that was the cell border. The Force came rushing back to him, like a too-tight embrace. He gasped out, “You want to let us go.”

The pirate’s eyes glazed over. His hands loosened on Obi-Wan’s arm even as his mind unraveled under Obi-Wan’s touch. “I—I want to—“

“You want to rethink your life,” Obi-Wan said, encouraging, twisting the threads of his mind away from the dark thoughts of greed and piracy, “Be something other than a pirate. Maybe start some charity work. You want to make up for all the evil you’ve done.”

“I’m sorry!” The pirate wailed, suddenly bursting into tears, “I’ve been so evil!”

“What the kark is wrong with you?” The pirate’s compatriot, who was trying to grab Vader, turned to stare at the commotion, “If this is another one of your breakdowns, the captain _will_ space you, and I won't try to stop her.“

Vader took the moment of distraction to lunge forward. As he broke through the invisible barrier that kept their Force ability contained, he stumbled, steadying himself on the wall. He looked up, and his eyes were golden once more. Obi-Wan felt the return of the Dark, suffocating as the air being sucked out of the room.

“Bastards,” Vader growled, and raised his hand.

Obi-Wan realized what he was about to do, the instant before he did it. “Wait—”

A sickening crack sounded, and both pirates went limp, their necks bent at impossible angles.

Obi-Wan doubled over, nausea rising up in his throat. He had been in the pirate’s mind when Vader had struck, and the instant of the pirate’s death resonated through him, a world crumbled, a life lost. He could still feel the ghostly echo of pain, the sudden shock.

He glared up at Vader, “You didn’t have to kill him!”

“Yes I did,” Vader said, turning golden eyes on him. If he thought Vader had been calm before, his assumptions were shattered with the inferno of emotion that raged around him in the Force, “They were slavers.”

Obi-Wan fought the urge to flinch back. He hadn’t felt Vader so strong with the Dark Side since they’d met. Even on Concord Dawn, when they were running from the Death Watch, Vader hadn’t killed anyone outright. He’d thought then that perhaps Vader had done it out of some unwillingness to give in completely, some part of him that still hadn’t Fallen. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen death before, but the sheer anger throbbing through the Force as Vader used it against the pirates—the Force was not meant to be used like that, wielded like an uncaring blade. It was an amplification of anger and hatred, like pouring rocket fuel on the bonfire of emotional excess. It would burn a soul to cinders with time. Why couldn’t Vader see it, what he was doing to himself?

“He wouldn’t have hurt anyone if you’d let him live,” Obi-Wan said, trying to remain calm, to keep back the anger that was tearing at the edges of his psyche. He pulled himself upright again, pushing down the headache. The pirate could have gone on to repent of his own accord, as the ideas Obi-Wan had planted slowly took root. Even the worst offender could turn away from the life of crime, and do kind things to make the world a lighter place, despite all his past transgressions.

“That doesn’t mean he hasn’t.” Vader retorted.

Obi-Wan frowned, because though that was true, the Jedi taught forgiveness over vengeance. All lives were sacred, in the Force. He tried again, “They were sentient beings—”

“They were animals,” Vader spat, “I’m not sorry, Jedi, and I won’t be sorry, no matter what platitudes you throw at me.”

“They could have been saved!” Obi-Wan said, irked by the callousness, “Their minds could be changed, they could have been turned back to the Light—” he broke off, suddenly aware that he had, perhaps, not been speaking just of the pirates.

Vader’s laugh was humorless and vicious, “You Jedi and your mind-tricks. You would have sent them home to think about their mistakes, like disobedient children. And maybe they would have lived the rest of their lives doing good and being nice and obedient. But why do they get to live long, fulfilled lives after everything they’ve done, all the children they’ve sold into suffering? Kark that and kark your Jedi peace and justice banthashit.”

Obi-Wan scowled, “I don’t know why I expected anything different.” Frustration burned in his gut, with himself, and with the Sith. Why had he thought Vader was any different than the Sith he’d been told to fear all his life? The glimpses of light in Vader’s mind were just hints of other possibilities, cracks of light. And yet by focusing on that, he’d lost sight of the surrounding darkness.

“I don’t know why you thought that either,” Vader said, with a dismissive shrug that made Obi-Wan’s blood boil.

A flash of anger, and he opened his mouth, acerbic remark at the ready to—

Obi-Wan froze, and took a slow breath in, reaching for the Force to bolster his mental shields. Kark did he need to meditate, if he was losing control of his emotions this easily. It was the sudden return of the Force, after being cut off for so long, and the Dark that Vader emanated that had his thoughts so scrambled. He tried to organize them, quickly.

So Vader wasn’t as close to the Light as he’d assumed. But still, the glimpse he’d seen while in the cell—he could work with that. He just had to make it off this pirate outpost; then he could meditate properly, and think of another plan. After all, hadn't Master Qui-Gon always told him to give people a second chance?

Vader turned away, shoulders stiff. He knelt to check the bodies for anything useful. A moment later, he stood, cuffs clicking open, and held out the electrocuff key. Obi-Wan took it, trying not to look at the bodies.

“Now,” Vader said, rubbing his wrists, “while you were in his mind dispersing the Light, did you manage to figure out where they’re keeping our lightsabers?”

===

“Are you trying to kill me?” Obi-Wan snapped as Vader’s strike almost took off his arm when they both tried to block the same blaster bolt with their newly recovered lightsabers. The pirates, shooting at them from the opposite end of the narrow hallway, shouted for reinforcements.

“If you would just stick to your own side of the hall, I wouldn’t have to!” Vader said, flipping over the next shot that flew towards them.

Unfortunately for him, Obi-Wan chose to deflect it upwards rather than dodge, and it singed a hole through Vader’s sleeve and elicited a startled shout.

“You did that on purpose!” 

“Why would I try to harm you on purpose? We’re fighting the same enemy.”

“I don’t know, some stupid form of revenge?”

“That is more of a Sith affliction.”

“Kark you, Kenobi.”

Then there was a gap in the shooting as a deflected bolt took out one of the pirates up front, and the both of the leapt forward towards the pirates, incapacitating them in an instant; Obi-Wan with a kick to the head and Vader with the more permanent method of a red lightsaber through the chest.

Obi-Wan looked over and winced, “I don’t suppose you’d consider sticking with removing limbs this time?”

Vader sneered, “They don’t deserve mercy.”

“Mercy is not always for those who receive it,” Obi-Wan said, philosophically. Vader scoffed, and turned away, stepping over the fallen pirates and heading further into the complex. Obi-Wan watched for a moment, then followed with a sigh.

“At least leave one to question next time,” he called out after the Sith, “We’ll never find the hangar just wandering aimlessly.”

Then, they turned the corner and ran into the pirate reinforcements, which had finally arrived.

“Surrender now, or I’ll blast you,” the tall Weequay pirate shouted, holding the ion cannon level with her hip.

“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan said.

“What are the chances that we’ll be able to hold off an ion cannon blast with our sabers?” Vader said.

“Not likely at this range,” Obi-Wan said. Perhaps if they tried to reach for the ion cannon together they could deflect its muzzle away from them. But even a glancing shot to the corridor walls could cause a ceiling collapse.

“Hey,” the pirate shouted, “I said, put down your laser swords and—aaargh!”

Obi-Wan and Vader watched in surprise as the pirate spasmed, dropping the ion cannon, and writhed briefly on the ground before going still. A triumphant beep sounded, and a droid, holding out an electro-prod, rolled into view. It prodded the prone pirate a few more times before turning towards them.

Obi-Wan and Vader stared at the droid, which beeped at them excitedly, it’s electro-prod flailing urgently.

“A friend of yours?” Obi-Wan asked. It certainly shared Vader’s propensity for gleeful violence.

Vader frowned, “That’s an astromech droid, an R2D2 unit proprietary to Naboo.”

“Naboo? Isn’t that—“

“Padme’s planet,” Vader finished.

The R2 unit beeped and trundled down the hall for a few steps, before spinning back around to beep at them again.

“I think it wants us to follow,” Obi-Wan said, taking a few cautions steps forward, “Perhaps it could to lead us to the hangar?”

Vader shrugged, “What’s there to lose?”

===

“I knew you were a good droid,” Vader grinned, running his mechanical hand over the droid’s smooth dome. Obi-Wan wondered if Vader had a soft spot for all things mechanical, as well as culinary. He certainly seemed to have an affinity for starships.

The pirate’s hangar held a veritable fleet of ships, though none of them as nice as Obi-Wan’s previous ship, generously on loan from a dignitary from Alderaan. He’d have to send Bail an apology note, since he was pretty sure the spaceport had impounded it by now. At least Vader seemed to be in the same situation, as he frowned at the choice of starships, muttering about why the pirates couldn’t afford a decent ship with all the unethical businesses they ran.

The R2 unit beeped something in response that made Vader withdraw his hand rather quickly. Obi-Wan wished, for once, that he’d learned binary in all of his travels with his Master, but droids were opaque in the Force, and Qui-Gon was quite insistent on piloting their ship by hand (good for astronavigation practice and building character, he’d said, despite Obi-Wan’s protests that flying was for droids).

Still, he turned to the R2 unit, a smile on his face, “I don’t suppose you have an escape vehicle ready?”

The R2 unit beeped and rolled towards a sleek Nubian-class ship that had evidently parked itself in a corner of the hangar, looking as out of place as an eopie in a bantha herd. Vader whistled as they approached, “A J-type 327, T-14 hyperdrive generator, built for speed and luxury, and she looks it.” he stroked a hand over the ship’s streamlined chrome side, a half-smile on his face.

The ramp to the ship descended as they approached, and the R2 unit beeped something in return, swiveling its head at them in a universal gesture for get-on-the-damn-ship. Obi-Wan, who had seen the little droid’s willingness to indulge in improper electroprod use earlier, followed obligingly. Even Vader seemed to realize that the base was not quite clear of pirates yet, and quickly hurried up the ramp.

The ship rose gently into the air under Vader's guidance. Vader marveled at the controls, "This has got to be the queen's ship, with a sublight drive this smooth."

The R2 unit's response was lost under the sound of loud claxon alarms as the hangar bay started to flash.

"The pirates must have woken up," Obi-Wan said.

"I told you we should have finished the job," Vader said, pushing a few more levers. The ship engine hummed louder, the floor rumbling with the latent energy building beneath them, and the ship angled towards the sky outside, "I'll pilot, you man the weapons. Shoot down anyone following; this is not the time to feel sympathy for the enemy!"

Obi-Wan glanced around the co-pilot's seat. "I don't see--"

The R2 unit beeped. To Obi-Wan's horror, Vader took his eyes off the flight path to stare at the droid.

"What do you mean we don't have weapons?"

===

The escape was, in the end, quite anticlimactic. Vader wasn’t joking when he’d said the ship was fast, though he did decry the lack of weaponry that prevented them from shooting the pirate ships out of the sky. One sub-light race to the atmosphere (and a nearly ruined co-pilot’s seat) and a hyperspace jump later, Obi-Wan finally released his grip on the plush leather seat and breathed a sigh of relief. In hyperspace, the stars streaked by in calm streams, and the Force, though muted slightly, was no longer as tinged with the darkness. Even Vader seemed calmer, amongst the luxury of what was clearly a top-end Nabooan spacecraft.

“So,” Vader said, swiveling the pilot’s seat towards their unusual rescuer.

“Who sent you to rescue us?” Obi-Wan asked, before Vader could start spouting threats. It would have been bad manners.

The R2 unit opened up it’s holoprojection port, and projected a small blue figure into the air before them. Vader stiffened beside him, and Obi-Wan watched, a sudden trepidation filling his lungs, as Padme Amidala, dressed in the finery of Naboo royalty, stood, hands clenched before her, a look of desperate hope on her face.

“Please, if you’re listening, I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...
> 
> Thanks for all the comments! This chapter absolutely kicked my ass, and I had to rehaul it twice before deciding that I was done and this is what you get. Also, life got in the way, and work is reopening so future updates may be sporadic.


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